£512 


A  MANUAL  OF  THE 
SHORT  STORY   ART 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK    •    BOSTON    •    CHICAGO    •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA    •    SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON    •    BOMBAY    •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
OF  CANADA,   LIMITED 

TORONTO 


A    MANUAL    OF    THE 

SHORT  STORY  ART 


BY 

GLENN  CLARK,  A.M. 

PROFESSOR  OF  ENGLISH   AT  MACALESTER   COLLEGE 


H3eto  Porfe 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1932 


COPYRIGHT,  1922, 
BY  THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved  —  no  part  of  this  book  may 
be  reproduced  in  any  form  without  permission  in 
writing  from  the  publisher,  except  by  a  reviewer 
who  wishes  to  quote  brief  passages  in  connection 
with  a  review  written  for  inclusion  in  magazine 
or  newspaper. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  April,  1922. 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED   STATES   OF  AMERICA  BY 
THE   BERWICK   &   SMITH   CO. 


To 
MY  FATHER  AND  MY  MOTHER 

who  taught  their  children  around 

the  evening  lamp  and  before 

the  open  fire  place  that  to 

see  life  imaginatively 

was    to    see    life 

truthfully. 


879780 


FOREWORD 

A  famous  actress,  long  since  dead,  once  remarked  with 
bitterness :  "In  my  day  all  that  was  necessary  to  produce 
a  play  were  two  boards  and  a  passion ;  today  all  that  is 
necessary  are  two  sticks  and  a  wardrobe."  In  adapting 
this  statement  to  the  writing  art  I  am  tempted  to  para- 
phrase it  as  follows:  In  the  good  old  days  all  that  one 
needed  to  become  a  writer  was  an  idea  and  a  dozen  goose 
quills ;  today  all  that  one  needs  is  a  dozen  rhetorics  and  a 
blue  pencil. 

This  book  was  written  with  an  eye  on  the  student,  not 
on  the  rules  of  composition  and  rhetoric.  It  conceives 
of  the  student  as  a  creature  who  loves  to  use  his  eyes 
and  ears,  and  who  takes  delight  in  playing  the  amateur 
detective  and  in  ravelling  and  unravelling  plots.  It  as- 
sumes that  a  young  man  or  a  young  woman  is  filled  to 
overflowing  with  warm,  living  interests  and  desires  and 
aspirations  which,  taken  together,  constitute  a  greater  driv- 
ing force  toward  success  in  writing  than  anything  which 
the  textbooks  and  teachers  can  give  him.  By  taking 
advantage  of  these  natural  desires  and  instincts  and  not 
working  against  them  it  is  believed  that  the  teacher  may 
best  "draw  out"  the  student  to  the  fullest  self-expression. 

One  of  these  deep-seated  instincts  of  the  student  is  to 
see  things  in  the  concrete.  For  that  reason  the  method 
of  presenting  exercises  commonly  used  in  this  book  is  the 
so-called  "projective  method."  Instead  of  being  asked  to 

vii 


viii  FOREWORD 

describe  a  city  street,  the  student  is  asked  to  read  a  sen- 
tence that  helps  him  to  visualize  a  street  and  then  to  write 
down  what  he  sees. 

Another  deep-seated  instinct  of  a  boy  is  to  "get  some- 
where." Much  as  we  may  decry  this  by-product  of  the 
American  worship  of  efficiency,  we  must  accept  it  as  a 
fact,  whether  or  not  we  ignore  it  in  theory.  The  Amer- 
ican boy  hates  to  mark  time.  For  that  reason  he  gives 
the  best  of  himself  in  supporting  his  football  team  which 
is  righting  its  way  toward  a  very  definite  and  materially 
visible  goal,  and  withholds  all  but  the  minimum  amount 
of  himself  from  the  mastering  of  Latin  conjugations 
where  the  goal  is  shrouded  in  mists  of  "sweetness  and 
light."  For  the  same  reason  the  average  boy  hates  the 
thought  of  writing  "themes"  where  the  only  relation  of 
one  to  the  other  is  as  the  relation  of  the  chapters  on 
Unity,  Coherence  and  Mass  in  his  textbook  are  one  to  the 
other,  and  where  the  final  result  is  the  blue  pencil  or  the 
wastebasket. 

In  this  book  the  short  story  is  the  goal,  and  the  descrip- 
tive and  narrative  bits  which  are  required  of  the  student 
in  the  early  chapters  are  all  steps  in  a  carefully  charted 
path  leading  directly  toward  that  goal. 

Needless  to  say  there  are  many  other  instincts,  charac- 
teristic of  boy  nature,  which  this  textbook  attempts  to 
utilize  in  tempting  a  boy  to  give  the  best  of  himself  to 
the  art  of  writing,  which,  lest  we  become  tedious,  we 
shall  leave  for  the  individual  instructors  and  students  to 
discover  for  themselves  as  they  proceed  to  put  these  exer- 
cises into  practice. 

To  summarize  briefly  what  has  just  been  said,  the  pur- 
pose of  this  book  is  to  take  the  study  of  English  Com- 


FOREWORD  ix 

position  out  of  the  hands  of  the  sons  of  Martha,  who 
have  monopolized  it  for  many  weary  and  all  but  fruitless 
years,  and  restore  it  to  the  sons  of  Mary  to  whom  by 
birthright  it  naturally  belongs.  In  other  words,  it  is  an 
attempt  to  transfer  the  art  of  composition  from  the  field 
of  the  Sciences  back  to  the  field  of  the  Arts,  and  to  invest 
it  with  that  most  potent  of  all  incentives  to  success — the 
artist's  true  joy  in  his  work. 

While  the  scheme  of  this  book,  taken  as  a  whole,  pre- 
sents a  new  attack  upon  an  old  problem,  the  principles 
underlying  the  plan  are  not  new.  Perhaps  the  chief  claim 
to  originality  which  the  book  deserves  is  that  its  author 
has  wandered  somewhat  off  the  beaten  track  in  his  search 
for  these  principles  and  for  the  illustrative  matter  to  make 
them  clear. 

I  am  indebted  first  of  all  to  the  psychologists  and  the 
students  of  the  human  mind,  from  Aristotle  down.  In  the 
second  place  I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  H.  C.  Peterson  who  in  a 
very  elementary  book  intended  for  high  schools,  and  to 
Miss  Gertrude  Buck  who  in  a  book  intended  for  teaching 
"Expository  Writing"  to  college  girls  discovered  some 
psychological  methods  of  approach  which  I  considered 
adaptable  for  short  story  writing.  I  am  indebted  to  in- 
numerable authors  who  have  in  one  way  or  another 
revealed  some  of  their  "trade  secrets."  One  source  which 
yielded  richly  of  this  material  was  the  "Editor  Magazine." 

For  assistance  in  reading  manuscript  and  for  criticism 
and  suggestions  I  wish  to  acknowledge  with  gratitude  and 
appreciation  my  indebtedness  to  the  following  teachers 
of  English:  Dean  L.  B.  R.  Briggs  of  Harvard  Univer- 
sity ;  Dr.  Laura  Lockwood,  Wellesley  College ;  Professor 


x  FOREWORD 

W.  S.  Ament,  Pomona  College;  Professor  M.  G.  Framp- 
ton,  Pomona  College;  Professor  Charles  A.  Noble,  Grin- 
nell  College;  Professor  George  F.  Richardson,  Oregon 
State  College;  Professor  Paul  F.  Wood,  University  of 
Southern  California ;  Professor  Irving  R.  Outcault,  Cali- 
fornia Normal  College;  Miss  Esther  B.  Tiffany,  Univer- 
sity of  Wisconsin. 

I  wish  also  to  acknowledge  my  indebtedness  to  the 
following  writers  and  journalists  who  read  the  manuscript 
and  gave  many  suggestions  of  practical  nature:  Miss  I. 
R.  A.  Wiley  of  England,  Mr.  Demaree  Bess  of  St.  Paul, 
and  Mrs.  Edith  Fullerton  Scott  of  Detroit. 

For  assistance  in  reading  proof  I  am  indebted  to  Mr. 
Kenneth  B.  Hunter  of  the  English  Department  of  the 
University  of  Minnesota,  and  Professor  A.  B.  Anderson 
and  Dr.  J.  C.  Hazzard  of  Macalester  College. 

I  wish  to  express  my  appreciation  of  the  following 
members  of  the  Macalester  College  Faculty  who  have  at 
different  times  assisted  me  in  teaching  freshmen  classes 
where  these  methods  have  been  used  and  who  have  helped 
me  build  up  this  system  upon  the  solid  basis  of  class- 
room results :  Miss  Frances  B.  Tiffany,  Miss  Frances  B. 
Kelley,  Professor  F.  D.  McRae,  Professor  John  Porter 
Hall,  Miss  Helen  Kellogg,  Miss  Margaret  Doty,  Dr.  C.  L. 
Wilson,  Mrs.  L.  R.  Shero  and  Miss  Sana  McKenney. 

Great  assistance  of  most  invaluable  nature  has  been 
rendered  by  Miss  Dorothy  Dornberg,  Miss  Clara  Jones, 
Miss  Carrie  Krugmeier,  and  Miss  Ada  Newcomb,  mem- 
bers of  the  Macalester  College  Quill  Club. 

Acknowledgment  is  due  the  following  writers  and 
publishers  for  the  right  to  use  material  in  this  book: 
Edward  J.  O'Brien,  Annual  Anthologies  of  Best  Short 


FOREWORD  xi 

Stories,  The  Editor  Magazine,  Tne  Student  Writer, 
The  Gateway  Magazine,  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  Edna  Fer- 
ber,  Wilbur  Daniel  Steele,  Georges  Polti,  Henry  Holt  & 
Company,  and  Doubleday,  Page  &  Company. 


A  WORD  TO  THE  TEACHER 

The  following  plan  of  using  this  book  has  been  found 
to  be  effective.  One  week  may  very  profitably  be  spent 
on  each  of  the  first  five  chapters  with  the  exception  of 
the  fourth  which  deserves  two  weeks.  A  week  means 
three  class  recitations  with  theme  assignments  and  some- 
times an  impromptu  theme  in  class.  The  first  five  chap- 
ters serve  to  introduce  the  student  to  the  more  elementary 
materials  of  the  short  story,  train  his  hand  in  the  funda- 
mentals of  style,  and  form  the  habit  of  almost  daily 
writing. 

Following  this  introductory  stage  a  week  may  be 
devoted  to  gathering  material  for  plots  according  to  the 
directions  in  Chapter  VI;  and  while  this  is  being  done 
outside  of  class  hours,  the  class  periods  may  be  used  for 
impromptu  themes  or  class  discussions  based  upon  the 
exercises  in  Chapter  XL  Then  should  follow  one  or  two 
weeks'  study  of  each  of  the  following  chapters:  VII, 
VIII,  IX,  and  X.  Stories  should  not  be  written  these 
weeks ;  they  should  merely  be  planned. 

Finally  a  month  or  three  weeks  should  be  given  over 
to  the  writing  of  an  original  short  story  which  should 
afterwards  be  carefully  revised. 

When  the  book  is  used  for  advanced  classes  in  short 
story  writing  the  first  five  chapters  may  be  passed  over 
a  little  more  rapidly  and  the  more  intensive  work  begin 
with  Chapter  VI.  One  story  of  each  of  the  four  types 

xiii 


xiv  A  WORD  TO  THE  TEACHER 

should  be  required  of  the  students,  one  of  which  should 
be  very  carefully  revised  as  the  crowning  effort  of  the 
course. 

The  most  annoying  difficulties  in  a  course  of  this  kind 
are  usually  connected  with  rhetoric,  style,  and  plot  build- 
ing. For  that  reason  the  material  in  Part  III  has  been 
included  in  this  book  to  relieve  the  teacher  of  some  of 
the  burden  of  overcoming  these  faults  of  the  student.  It 
should  be  reserved  for  specific  individual  assignments — 
to  be  prescribed  by  the  teacher  whenever  and  wherever 
it  seems  to  be  particularly  needed. 

The  main  body  of  technique  is  grouped  together  in  one 
short  chapter  (Chapter  XI)  which  the  student  is  to  read 
and  re-read  and  refer  to  constantly  while  he  is  writing  his 
complete  short  story.  This  chapter  discloses  the  whole 
premise  upon  which  this  book  is  based:  That  only  as  the 
student  is  required  to  apply  his  knowledge  in  actual  exer- 
cises will  the  knowledge  be  assimilated,  become  part 
of  that  larger  body  of  actual  working  knowledge  which 
the  student  already  possesses,  and  which,  when  it  is  made 
an  integral  part  of  himself,  becomes  wisdom. 


A  WORD  TO  THE  STUDENT 

It  is  only  fair  to  tell  you  right  at  the  beginning  what 
this  book  cannot  do  for  you.  It  cannot  give  you  the 
background  of  a  wide  and  deep  experience  of  life.  It 
cannot  give  you  that  liberal  culture  and  training  of  intel- 
lect which  only  years  of  reading  and  study  can  give  you. 
The  highest  attributes  of  a  writer — character,  culture  and 
vision — this  book  cannot  and  does  not  pretend  to  give  you. 
It  furnishes  only  the  smallest  part  of  the  requirements 
of  a  writer — the  technique  and  formula  of  one  specific 
mode  of  writing. 

rTmight  be  said  that  this  book  is  merely  the  mallet 
and  chisel  by  which  the  student  may  be  enabled  to 
disengage  his  vision  from  the  block.  The  technique 
is  not  as  important  as  the  vision;  and  a  knowledge  of 
formula  is  not  as  important  as  a  knowledge  of  life.  The 
beginner,  without  vision  and  without  knowledge  of  life, 
will  find  himself  circumscribed  by  a  too  slavish  observa- 
tion of  the  purely  mechanical  laws  of  short-story  writing. 
But  as  he  grows  in  knowledge  of  life  and  in  breadth  of 
vision  he  will  find  himself  touching  with  confident  hand 
certain  phases  of  life  regardless  of  whether  they  fall  into 
the  frame  of  the  conventional  plot  with  its  emphasis  upon 
action  which  too  often  results  in  melodrama,  seeking 
rather  those  more  subtle,  intangible  clashes  between 
motives  and  persons  which  is  real  drama. 

It  is  advisable  that  the  beginner  in  any  art  should 

xv 


xvi  A  WORD  TO  THE  STUDENT 

submit  his  work  to  the  technique  and  formula  of  that  art. 
But  that  does  not  mean  that  he  should  become  complacent 
as  he  sees  himself  attaining  the  mastery  of  the  external 
material  in  which  he  works.  For  development  in  any  art 
is  measured  not  so  much  by  the  things  done  by  the  student 
as  by  the  growth  within  the  student ;  and  this  inner  growth 
awaits  upon  the  gradual  development  of  his  general  intel- 
lectual capacities  and  his  ever  enlarging  knowle4ge  of  life. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

FOREWORD vii 

A  WORD  TO  THE  TEACHER xiii 

A  WORD  TO  THE  STUDENT   .  xv 


PART  I 

STUDIES  IN  SHORT  STORY  WRITING  .     .  i 

CHAPTER 

I.     THE  PICTURE 3 

STUDIES  IN  VISUALIZATION 8 

II.    THE  LOGICAL  ARRANGEMENT  OF  A  PICTURE  10 

STUDIES  IN  FIRST  IMPRESSIONS 12 

III.  SUPPORTING  THE  PICTURE     .....  14 

STUDIES  IN  THE  FIVE  SENSES 17 

IV.  THE  STORY  EMERGES  FROM  THE  PICTURE   .  21 

STUDIES  IN  SUGGESTION 22 

V.    THE  STORY  EMERGES  FROM  DIALOGUE  .      .  27 

STUDIES  IN  DIALOGUE 31 

The  House  Opposite— Anthony  Hope       .       .  33 

VI.    GATHERING  MATERIAL  FOR  STORIES  ...  39 

EXERCISES  IN  GATHERING  IDEAS  FOR  STORIES      .  44 
xvii 


xviii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

VII.    THE  STORY  FROM  CHARACTER     ....  47 

EXERCISES 52 

VIII.    THE  STORY  WHICH  BEGINS  WITH  COMPLI- 
CATION     62 

EXERCISES 68 

IX.  THE  STORY  FROM  SETTING 72 

EXERCISES 75 

X.  THE  STORY  THAT  GROWS  FROM  A  THEME  .  80 

EXERCISES 81 

XL  SOME  QUESTIONS  ANSWERED 88 

MISCELLANEOUS  STUDIES  IN  SHORT  STORY  WRIT- 
ING    104 

The  Spurious  One — Gertrude  Brooke  Hamil- 
ton    109 


PART  II 

CREATIVE  CRITICISM   OF  FOUR  SHORT 

STORIES 115 

AN  INTERVIEW  WITH  JAMES  OPPENHEIM   .     118 

THE  SELF-INVENTORY  OF  THE  WRITER  OF 

STORIES 122 

"THE  GAY  OLD  DOG"  By  Edna  Ferber  .      .     124 
CREATIVE  CRITICISM  OF  A  STORY  OF  CHARACTER     153 


CONTENTS  xix 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

"THE  COP  AND  THE  ANTHEM"  By  O.  Henry  157 

CREATIVE  CRITICISM  OF  A  COMPLICATION   STORY  164 

"GREATER  LOVE  HATH  No  MAN"  By  Beat- 
rice Walker 169 

CREATIVE  CRITICISM  OF  A  STORY  OF  ATMOSPHERE  180 

"THE  DARK  HOUR"  By  Wilbur  Daniel  Steele  184 

CREATIVE  CRITICISM  OF  A  THEMATIC  STORY    •      .  196 

PART  III 

SOME  SUGGESTIONS  FOR  MEETING  THE 
CHIEF  PROBLEMS  IN  RHETORIC, 

STYLE,  AND  PLOT  BUILDING     .  203 

I.    FIRST  AID  IN  REVISION 205 

EXERCISES  IN  RHETORIC 22O 

II.    SELF-CULTIVATION  IN  STYLE       ....  221 

DIRECTIONS  FOR  EXERCISES   IN   STYLE  BUILDING  223 

III.    THE  THIRTY-SIX   ORIGINAL  PLOT  SITUA- 
TIONS       234 

EXERCISES  IN  THE  THIRTY-SIX  PLOT  SITUATIONS  249 


PART  I 

STUDIES  IN  SHORT 
STORY  WRITING 


A  MANUAL  OF 

THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

CHAPTER  I 
THE  PICTURE. 

—  The  protoplasm  of  all  writing  is  the  picture.  The  first 
known  writing  was  picture  writing.  The  latest  achieve- 
ment of  human  art  is  the  picture  drama.  The  picture  is 
the  most  simple,  the  most  elemental,  the  most  effective 
of  all  methods  of  presenting  thought. 

As  a  matter  of-  fact  we  habitually  think,  even  in  our 
commonest  affairs,  not  in  abstractions  but  in  pictures. 
Your  friend  invites  you  to  go  with  him  on  a  fishing  trip. 
You  sit  down  to  consider  the  matter.  Almost  at  once 
your  mental  conceptions  take  the  form  of  pictures.  You 
see  yourself  collecting"  your  tackle,  and  packing  your  grip. 
Then  you  see  yourself  on  the  edge  of  the  lake  or  the  creek, 
and  pushing  out  in  a  little  boat.  You  see  the  silver  sur- 
face of  the  water  all  about  you  and  the  birches  or  willows 
along  the  water's  edge.  Perhaps  you  see  your  line  shake 
as  a  fish  nibbles  at  the  bait,  and  then  suddenly  pull  taut 
as  the  victim  is  snared.  Or  you  may  see  the  sun  beating 
down  upon  your  hat  and  the  swarms  of  little  gnats  and 
mosquitoes  buzzing  round  your  ears,  and  your  line  hang- 

3 


4  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

ing  listlessly  in  the  water  with  no  sign  of  a  "bite."  Other 
things  being  equal,  it  depends  very  largely  upon  the^icture 
wriich  yoi*  see  most  vividly  whether  you  will/accept  your 
friend's  invitation  or  not. 

Someone  has  said  that  a  story  is/merely  a  series  of 
pictures  strung  together  by  dialogue,  and  as  a  matter  of 
fact  this  is  not  by  any  means/the  poorest  definition  of  a 
story.  Teachers  of  public/speaking  have  pointed  out  that 
nothing  is  much  more  effective  in  a  speech  than  a  series 
of  well  chosen  pieties  which  illustrate  and  amplify  the 
central  1  hough t,x  Thus  you  see  that  whether  you  are 
writing  a  stpry  or  delivering  a  speech  the  picture  method 
is  equally^  effective.  Whether  your  hearers  are  illiterate 
peasants  or  the  most  learned  scholars  you  can  rest  assured 
that  the  picture  as  a  means  of  conveying  thought  is  very 
rarely  futile  or  inappropriate. 

\  I rSo  we  may  reaffirm  that  the  fundamental  element  in  all 

— ^-writing  is  the  picture.     It  is  the  raw  material,  the  proto- 
— -plasm  out  of  which  the  first  writing  came,  and  the  mastery 
of  it  and  the  shaping  of  it  to  artistic  and  effective  ends 
---is  the  chief  goal  of  our  greatest  writers  of  today.     There- 
— fore  if  you  intend  to  become  a  writer   or  speaker,  or 
-merely  an  intelligent  reader  of  other  men's  writings,  you 
—should  learn  how  to  see  and  how  to  reproduce  a  picture. 
Your  first  step  toward  the  writing  of  the  short  story 
will  be  to  put  into  practice  this   fundamental  principle. 
You  are  to  see  a  picture  and  to  see  it  as  vividly  as  you  can. 
With  that  purpose  in  view  give  your  concentrated  atten- 
tion for  several  minutes  to  the  sentence  in  the  middle  of 
the  next  page. 


OLD  UNCLE   JOHN   SAT 

IN  HIS  COMFORTABLE  . 

ARM-CHAIR  BEFORE  THE 

FIRE,  SMOKING  HIS  PIPE 


6  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

Did  you  get  a  picture?  Now  shut  your  eyes  and  wait 
until  the  picture  becomes  very  clear,  so  clear  that  you 
begin  to  see  the  vaguely  discerned  objects  in  the  shadows 
creep  out  to  the  edge  of  the  flickering  fire's  glow.  Do 
you  see  the  way  Uncle  John  sits — the  lines  on  the  cheeks 
and  brow — the  way  he  holds  his  hands — the  garments  he 
wears?  Is  he  a  real  man,  or  merely  a  phantom  man 
without  a  shadow  and  without  a  complexion,  without 
wrinkles  or  freckles  or  anything  to  distinguish  him  from 
any  other  man  ?  Is  it  a  room  different  from  all  other 
rooms — a  real  room  in  fact? 

Now  take  a  perfectly  clean  sheet  of  paper  and  put  that 
picture  down  in  words.  Take  care  not  to  have  any  other 
character  enter  and  do  not  conjecture  what  Uncle  John 
is  thinking  about.  All  that  we  want  is  a  picture.  Re- 
member that  every  object  is  not  equally  distinct ;  some 
things  are  in  the  shadow,  soirue  are  in  the  light.  Try 
hard  to  put  down  all  those  salient  little  details  which 
individualize  that  room  and  -make  it  different  from  all 
other  rooms.  Begin  with  the  thing  which  affects  you 
most  or  stands  out  the  brightest,  and  go  straight  ahead. 
Don't  look  to  right  or  lef/.  Let  your  pen  go  as  fast  as 
your  fingers  can  make  it.  Don't  pause  for  the  word  that 
won't  come.  Leave  a  blank  and  come  back  to  it  later. 
Don't  stop  to  correct  a /word  which  you  think  may  be  mis- 
spelled. There  will  ^>e  plenty  of  time  for  that  later. 
Your  chief  business/  for  the  time  being  is  to  get  that 
picture  down  on  the  paper  before  you. 

After  your  picture  is  completed,  and  not  before,  you 

may  lean  back  in  ,an  easy  chair  and  proceed  to  go  over  it, 

as  the  saying  runs,  "with  a  fine-tooth  comb."  /  Make  this 

one  of  your  n/ost  carefully  observed  laws  of   writing: 

\After  writing  down  your  picture  in  hot  blood,  revise  it 


THE  PICTURE  7 

in  cold  blood.)  At  this  point  you  cannot  be  too  careful. 
You  will  see  the  wisdom  now  of  leaving  space  enough 
between  the  lines  for  interlinear  corrections.  Wide  mar- 
gins are  also  a  great  help.  In  your  first  themes  look  out 
especially  for  the  following  faults: 

1.  Have  you  used  abstract  or  general  words  for  con- 
crete or  specific  ones  ?     For  instance,  did  you  say  that  the 
room  was  dirty  when  you  might  have  said  that  there  were 
splotches  of  mud  on  the  floor? 

2.  Were  the  sentences  monotonously  similar  in  form 
and  length? 

3.  Did  you  use  commas  where  they  were  not  needed 
to  make  the  meaning  clear? 

4.  Did  you  use  too  many  "ands"? 

When  you  have  finally  made  all  the  corrections  you  can, 
copy  the  theme  neatly  on  a  clean  sheet  of  paper,  writing 
on  one  side  of  the  paper  only,  leaving  good  margins — 
and  your  first  task  is  done. 

L/THE  ADVICE  OF  A   FAMOUS  TEACHER  TO   A   FAMOUS   PUPIL 

"Everything  which  one  desires  to  express  must  be 
looked  at  with  sufficient  attention,  and  during  a  sufficiently 
long  time,  to  discover  in  it  some  aspect  which  no  one  has 
as  yet  seen  or  described.  In  everything  there  is  still  some 
spot  unexplored,  because  we  are  accustomed  only  to  use 
our  eyes  with  the  recollection  of  what  others  before  us 
have  thought  on  the  subject  which  we  contemplate.  The 
smallest  object  contains  something  unknown.  Find  it. 
To  describe  a  fire  that  flames,  and  a  tree  on  the  plain, 
look,  keep  looking,  at  that  flame  and  that  tree  until  in 
your  eyes  they  have  lost  all  resemblance  to  any  other  tree 
or  any  other  fire. 

"This  is  the  way  to  become  original.  .  .  . 

"When  you  pass  a  grocer  seated  at  his  shop  door,  a 
janitor  smoking  his  pipe,  a  stand  of  hackftey  coaches, 


8  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

show  me  that  grocer  and  that  janitor — their  attitude,  their 
whole  physical  appearance — embracing  likewise,  as  indi- 
cated by  the  skil fulness  of  the  picture,  their  whole  moral 
nature;  so  that  I  cannot  confound  them  with  any  other 
grocer  or  any  other  janitor.  Make  me  see,  in  one  word, 
that  a  certain  cab  horse  does  not  resemble  the  fifty  others 
that  follow  or  precede  it." 

Flaubert's  advice  to  Maupassant. 

STUDIES  IN  VISUALIZATION 

1.  Little  Johnny  sat  on  the  bank  of  a  pond,  with  one  shoe 

and  stocking  off,  in  deep  meditation. 

2.  The  street  of  smooth  asphalt  gleamed  under  the  summer 

sun. 

3.  Mary,  with  her  bonnet  hanging  loose,  leaned  over  the 

gate,  watching  the  road  closely. 

4.  The  soda  clerk,  in  neat  apron,  stood  behind  the  marble 

counter. 

5.  At  the  end  of  the  long  portage,  the  old  harvester  stopped 

for  a  moment  to  contemplate  the  glare  of  the  setting 
sun  upon  the  placid  water  of  Lake  Silence. 

6.  The  immense  cathedral  stood  right  before  him. 

7.  The  riveter  was  working  on  the  rattling  steel  girder. 

8.  Old  Eben,  with  his  scythe  on  his  shoulder,  stood  by  the 

old  farm  gate  at  the  close  of  day. 

9.  A  lone  musician  sat  with  his  guitar  in  a  small  boat,  play- 

ing to  the  moonlight  on  the  water. 

jo.     In  the  door  of  the  tent  Old  Indian  John,  the  last  of  his 
tribe,  sat  smoking  his  stone  pipe. 

11.  The  professor  sat  behind  his  desk  waiting  for  his  ques- 

tion to  be  answered. 

12.  With  a  gun  in  his  hand  and  a  dependable  bird  dog  at  his 

side  he  started  out  over  the  wild  hay  meadows. 

13.  The  day  was  warm  and  the  stands  were  crowded  with 

people  waiting  for  the  race  to  begin. 


THE  PICTURE  9 

14.  Aunt  Tilly  sat  on  a  straight  bade  chair,   reading  the 

family  Bible. 

15.  Grandmother  Grey  sat  knitting  in  the  back  yard  under 

the  old  apple  tree. 

16.  The  Old  Doctor  sat  in  his  old  office  chair. 

17.  Little  Marie  sat  on  the  floor  of  the  nursery,  playing 

with  her  dolls. 

18.  Old  Silas  and  his  friends  had  seated  themselves  around 

the  old  stove,  in  the  general  merchandise  store,  which 
was  lighted  by  a  hanging  oil  lamp. 

19.  On  the  wall  above  the  mantle  of  the  fireplace  hung  a 

colored  painting  entitled  "Aurora." 

20.  Alice,  a  little  girl  three  years  old,  was  playing  with  a 

broken  toy  wagon  on^the  street. 

21.  The  moon  shone  brightly  on  the  little  old  cabin,  dis- 

closing a  darky  seated  on  the  front  step  with  his  banjo. 

22.  The  chimney  sweep,  with  bag  of  tools  over  his  shoulder, 

came  whistling  down  the  street. 

23.  Shortly  after  landing  we  marched  five  miles  inland,  and 

then,  for  the  first  time,  I  saw  the  remaining  ruins  of 
the  ancient  Spanish  fort. 

24.  Old  Granny  Chappie   was  busily  weeding  her  garden 

beside  the  house. 

25.  Mary    sits    at    her    desk,    busily    writing    a    theme    for 

English. 

26.  The  old  man  in  ragged  coat  sat  on  the  bench  in  the  park. 

27.  Freddie,  standing  on  the  outside  of  the  circus  tent  with 

one  eye  glued  to  a  tiny  opening,  seemed  very  intent 
on  what  was  happening  inside. 

28.  Old  Rover  was  stretched  out  on  the  back  step  sunning 

himself. 

29.  Little  Tom  sat  playing  in  the  sand  pile  by  the  garden. 

30.  John  was  sitting  on  the  ground  fixing  his  automobile. 

NOTE:  The  exercises  above  may  be  divided  into  three  sets  to  be  used  in 
three  succeeding  years,  or  to  avoid  too  great  duplication  in  assignments  when 
used  in  several  sections  of  a  Freshman  College  English  course. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  LOGICAL  ARRANGEMENT  OF  A  PICTURE 

In  your  description  of  Uncle  John  what  detail  did  you 
put  first?  His  face?  The  effect  of  the  light  upon  the 
room?  The  rbom  as  a  whole?  Or  did  you  begin  back 
in  the  corner? 

This  is  an  important  question;  for  upon  its  answer 
hinges  the  clearness  of  effect  which  your  picture  will 
make  upon  your  readers.  The  first  thing  we  must  learn 
after  the  elementary  art  of  visualization  has  been  mastered 
is  the  art  of  beginning  in  the  right  place. 

t\call  this  an  art  because  that  is  what  it  practically 
amourTte  to  in  the  hands  of  a  true  artist.  However,  it  is 
an  art  fouixjed  upon  a  firmly  established  principle,  and 
it  will  prove  oix,  inestimable  help  to  you  to  know  what 
this  principle  is.  'On  its  face  this  principle  sounds  very 
simple:  Describe  first  the  thing  which  you  see  first. 

But  as  a  matter  of  fact  there  is  hardly  a  more  difficult 
thing  in  the  world  than  to  determine  definitely  what  you 
see  first.  Our  method  of  observing  things  has  become 
by  long  habit  so  rapid  a  process  that  to  many  of  us  it 
seems  instantaneous.  When  we  sit  down  and  attempt  to 
find  stages  in  this  process,  we  find  it  almost  impossible. 

We  can  get  at  this  problem  best  by  calling  to  our  aid 
the  analogy  of  the  moving-picture  machine.  A  naturalist 
who  has/difficulty  in  discovering  the  exact  motions  of  a 
wild  animal  when  it  is  running  at  top  speed  has  recourse 
to  the  ultra-rapid  movie  camera.  There  comes  a  day 

10 


LOGICAL  ARRANGEMENT  OF  A  PICTURE      11 


he  has  the  opportunity  of  making  a  series  of  pictures 
of  tHe  -animal  in  motion.  These  pictures,^  when  released 
upon  the  screen,  reveal  the  animal  moving  at  one-fifth  its 
actual  speed,  thus  enabling  the-student  to  observe  accur- 
ately the  exact  sequence  o-f  its  motions.  A  similar  method 
has  been  used  on  groups  of  industrial  workers  by  students 
of  scientific  management  to  discover  ways  and  means  of 
eliminating  waste  motions  in  industry. 

As  one  means  of  getting  at  our  problem,  thenr  I  suggest 
that  we,  figuratively  speaking,  bring  to~  our  aid  a  device 
similar  to  that  of  the  moving-picture  machine.  That  is 
to  say,  let  us  attempt  to  get  our  first  impressions  of  a 
scene  quickly,  and  then  take  them  into  a  dark  room,  so 
to  speak,  and  examine  them  slowly." 

How  shall  you  do  this  ?  Select  an  old  church,  a  black- 
smith shop  or  a  dark  cellar  for  your  experiment.  Step 
in,  take  one  sweeping  glance  around  you,  and  then  step 
out  again.  What  impression  did  you  get?  When  you 
come  to  examine  your  results  you  will  find'  that  you  will 
be  able  to  deduce  the  following  principle  :-^The  tendency 
of  the  good  description  is  to  move  from  the  general  to 
the  particular,  from  the  effect  as  a  whole  to  the  effect 
as  detail.)  The  mass  of  de/ails,  contributor^  to  this  gen- 
eral impression,  should  come  later. 

Another  wa^  of  retarding  your  process  of  observation 
is  to  station  yourself  a  long  distance  away  frjom  an  object 
and  approach!  it  slowly.  You  can  then  record  your  im- 
pressions in  me  actual  order  in  which  they  icome  to  you. 

"Southward,  above  and  beyond  the  deep  green  chain, 
tower  other  volcanic  forms  —  very  far  away,  and  so  pale- 
gray  as  to  seem  like  clouds.  Those  are  the  heights  of 
Nevis  —  another  creation  ;of  the  subterranean  fires. 

"It  draws  nearer,  floats  steadily  into  definition  :  a  great 


12  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

mountain  flanked  by  two  small  ones;  three  summits;  the 
loftiest,  with  clouds  packed  high  upon  it,  still  seems  to 
smoke;  the  second  highest  displays  the  most  symmetrical 
crater-form  I  have  yet  seen.  All  are  still  grayish-blue  or 
gray.  Gradually  through  the  blues  break  long  high  gleams 
of  green. 

"As  we  steam  closer,  the  island  becomes  all  verdant 
from  flood  to  sky;  the  great  dead  crater  shows  its  im- 
mense wreath  of  perennial  green.  On  the  lower  slopes 
little  settlements  are  sprinkled  in  white,  red,  and  brown ; 
houses,  windmills,  sugar-factories,  high  chimneys  are  dis- 
tinguishable— cane-plantations  unfold  gold-green  surfaces. 

"We  pass  away.  The  island  does  not  seem  to  sink 
behind  us,  but  to  become  a  ghost.  All  its  outlines  grow 
shadowy.  For  a  little  while  it  continues  green ;  but  it  is 
a  hazy,  spectral  green,  as  of  colored  vapor.  The  sea  to- 
day looks  almost  black :  the  southwest  wind  has  filled  the 
day  with  luminous  mist ;  and  the  phantom  of  Nevis  melts 
in  the  vast  glow,  dissolves  utterly." 

— Lafcadio  Hearn. 

This  substantiates  your  first  conclusion :  that  the  stages 
through  which  perception  passes  are  always  from  the  gen- 
eral effect  to  the  particular  details.  "Perception  is  not  the 
instantaneous  thing  we  are  accustomed  to  think,  but  occu- 
pies time,  though  brief  time,"  writes  Miss  Buck  in  "Essen- 
tials of  Expository  Writing."  "The  stages  through  which 
perception  passes  on  its  way  to  completeness  are,  in  their 
essential  features,  the  same  for  all  normal  observers." 

STUDIES  IN  FIRST  IMPRESSIONS 
I.    Step  into  a  building  and  out  again  quickly,  in  imagina- 
tion or  in  reality,  and  then  record  your  first  impression  in 
one  or  two  sentences. 

A  cathedral  A  kitchen  An  attic 

A  grocery  store        An  old  church          A  barn 

A.  cellar  A  cozy  parlor  A  schoolroom 


LOGICAL  ARRANGEMENT  OF  A  PICTURE      13 

II.  Describe   in   one   paragraph,   giving   the   general   im- 
pression first  and  following  with  only  a  few  of  the  most  sig- 
nificant details,  the  glimpses  you  get  from  a  rapidly  moving 
train,  of  a  lake,  a  river,  a  wood  path,  a  street  in  a  village, 
a  crowd  pouring  from  a  hall,  a  burning  house. 

III.  (i)    Describe  the  way  a  black  spot  on  the  horizon 
resolves  itself  into  detail  as  you  approach :  a  factory,  a  vil- 
lage, a  clump  of  trees,  a  farmer  in  the  field. 

(2)  Watch  an  approaching  train,  steamboat,  automobile, 
horseman,  cyclist  or  drove  of  cattle,  and  record  your  impres- 
sions. 

IV.  Describe  as  in  Chapter  I  one  of  the  following: 

1.  The  little  store  invited  the  weary  shopper  to  its  quiet. 

2.  As  Vera  reached  the  top  of  the  hill,  the  rising  sun 

was  just  peeping  over  the  horizon. 

3.  Alice  stood  gazing  at  the  beautiful  silver  path  the 

moon  was  throwing  across  the  lake. 

4.  Charles  stood  on  the  pier  and  watched  the  immense 

steamer  slowly  move  out  of  the  harbor. 

5.  An  old  dust-covered  bicycle  stood  in  Grandmother's 

attic. 
6.     Old  Jerry  sat  dozing  in  the  noon-day  glare,  his  fish 

pole  slanting  down  by  the  edge  of  the  boat. 
7.     The  little  baby  lay  on  his  back  on  the  rug  playing 
with  his  toes. 

SUGGESTIONS  FOR  ASSIGNMENTS 

First  Lesson:  Describe  one  from  I,  one  from  II,  one 
from  IV. 

Second  Lesson:  Describe  one  from  I,  one  from  III,  one 
from  IV. 

Third  Lesson:  Take  topic  of  own  choosing  and  apply 
principles  discussed  in  this  chapter. 

NOTE:  The  exercises  in  this  chapter  will  automatically  impress  upon  the 
student  the  importance  of  unity,  coherence  and  a  definite  point  of  view- 


• 


CHAPTER  III 
SUPPORTING  THE  PICTURE 

We  see,  then,  that  the  picture  is  the  starting  point  of  all 
writing.  And  we  have  discovered  that  to  present  a  picture 
vividly  and  effectively  we  must  take  into  account  two 
things :  first,  the  importance  of  the  seemingly  trivial  but  in 
fact  very  important  detail ;  and,  second,  the  importance  of 
presenting  the  picture  in  the  natural,  logical  way  in  which 
it  would  appear  to  the  observer. 

But  to  give  us  a  sense  of  reality  a  picture  should  be 
more  than  mere  details  strung  together  according  to  a 
definite  and  logical  arrangement.  The  reader  should  be 
made  to  step  into  the  picture,  so  to  speak,  and  to  feel  him- 
self a  part  of  it.  And  here  we  find  the  limitations  of  the 
sense  of  sight. 

I  can  make  this  clear  by  an  illustration.  Suppose  we 
add  to  the  purely  visual  details  in  the  sketch  of  Uncle 
John,  the  sound  of  crackling  logs,  the  smell  of  burning 
pine  knots  and  the  soothing  sense  of  warmth  stealing  over 
the  face  and  body  of  the  old  man,  and  immediately  the 
picture  springs  into  a  thing  of  life.  The  object  that  we 
have  been  seeing  becomes  a  real  object  in  a  real  world. 

In  other  words,  a  picture  should  possess  that  element 
which  all  great  painters  prize  very  highly — atmosphere, 
something  which  mere  visual  detail  cannot  give  it.  There 
is  nothing  that  gives  this  depth  and  tone  to  a  picture 
better  than  a  judicious  adjnixture  of  details  of  sound, 
smell,  taste  and  touch.  Note  The  sense  of  reality  that 
lingers  about  the  following  descriptions: 

14 


SUPPORTING  THE  PICTURE  15 

SOUND:  "His  room  was  on  the  north  side  of  the 
street,  and  the  morning  sun  shone  in  his  window  as  he 
lay  back  in  the  chair,  grateful  for  its  warmth.  A  heavy 
cart  lumbered  along  slowly  over  the  worn  and  irregular 
pavement ;  it  came  to  a  stand  at  the  corner,  and  a  gang  of 
workmen  swiftly  emptied  it  of  the  steel  rails  it  contained, 
dropping  them  on  the  sidewalk  one  by  one  with  a  loud 
clang  which  reverberated  harshly  far  down  the  street. 
From  the  little  knot  of  men  who  were  relaying  the  horse- 
car  track  came  cries  of  command,  and  then  a  rail  would 
drop  into  position,  and  be  spiked  swiftly  to  its  place. 
Then  the  laborers  would  draw  aside  while  an  arrested 
horse-car  urged  forward  again,  with  the  regular  foot- fall 
of  its  one  horse,  as  audible  above  the  mighty  roar  of  the 
metropolis  as  the  jingle  of  the  little  bell  on  the  horse's 
collar.  At  last  there  came  from  over  the  house-tops  a 
loud  whistle  of  escaping  steam,  followed  shortly  by  a 
dozen  similar  signals,  proclaiming  the  midday  rest.  A 
rail  or  two  more  clanged  down  on  the  others,  and  then 
the  cart  rumbled  away.  The  workmen  relaying  the  track 
had  already  seated  themselves  on  the  curb  to  eat  their 
dinner,  while  one  of  them  had  gone  to  the  saloon  at  the 
corner  for  a  large  can  of  the  new  beer  advertised  in  the 
window  by  the  gaudy  lithograph  of  a  frisky  young  goat 
bearing  a  plump  young  ^goddess  on  his  back." — Brander 
Matthews,  "Vignettes  of  Manhattan." 

SMELL:  "There  were  whole  streets — and  these  by 
no  means  the  least  fascinating  and  romantic — where  the 
unwritten  domestic  records  of  every  house  were  afloat  in 
the  air  outside  it — records  not  all  savory  or  sweet,  but 
always  full  of  interest  and  charm ! 

"One  knew  at  a  sniff  as  one  passed  the  porte-cochere 
what  kind  of  people  lived  behind  and  above ;  what  they  ate 
and  what  they  drank,  and  what  their  trade  was ;  whether 
they  did  their  washing  at  home,  and  burned  tallow  or  wax, 
and  mixed  chicory  with  their  coffee,  and  were  over-fond 
of  Gruyere  cheese — the  biggest,  cheapest,  plainest,  and 
most  formidable  cheese  in  the  world ;  whether  they  fried 
with  oil  or  butter,  and  liked  their  omelets  overdone  and 


16  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

garlic  in  their  salad,  and  sipped  black-currant  brandy  or 
anisette  as  a  liqueur ;  and  were  overrun  with  mice,  and 
used  cats  or  mouse  traps  to  get  rid  of  them,  or  neither; 
and  bought  violets,  or  pinks,  or  gillyflowers  in  season,  and 
kept  them  too  long ;  and  fasted  on  Friday  with  red  or  white 
beans,  or  lentils,  or  had  a  dispensation  from  the  Pope — or 
haply,  even  dispensed  with  the  Pope's  dispensation." — 
George  du  Manner,  "Peter  Ibbetson." 

TASTE :  "You  have  watched  that  fruit-laden  tree  for 
a  week.  You  have  noted  the  blush  beginning  to  creep 
over  the  sunward  side  of  those  peaches  on  the  lower  limb. 
But  all  your  pinching  heretofore  has  been  in  vain — not  a 
peach  responds  with  the  well-known  yielding  at  the  pres- 
sure of  your  ringers.  Now,  at  last,  here  in  the  fork  is 
one  with  a  blackened  cavity  in  its  side.  It  drops  from 
its  place  when  your  hand  rests  upon  it.  You  pick  it  up, 
exulting,  rolling  it  over  and  over  in  your  hands,  noting 
the  downy  softness  and  the  pliancy  of  its  form  with  your 
fingers. 

"Your  next  impulse  is  to  carry  it  to  your  nose.  When 
its  fragrance  strikes  your  nostrils,  your  mouth  begins  to 
water  out  of  sympathy.  A  rich,  clinging  odor,  not  spicy 
nor  savoring  of  aromatic  drugs,  but  rich  with  the  plain, 
honest  sweetness  of  nature! 

"The  mouth  in  this  case  is  the  necessary  concomitant 
of  the  nose.  So  in  goes  the  peach — bit  by  bit — to  prolong 
the  pleasure  of  the  eating.  The  rich,  clinging  fragrance 
changes  to  a  rich,  clinging  flavor.  The  delicate  structure 
seems  to  melt  in  your  mouth ;  all  turns  to  juice — a  honied 
draught  of  nature's  that  neither  intoxicates  nor  cloys — a 
drink  that  the  nectar-sipping  gods  might  envy." — George 
F.  Richardson,  in  Grinnell  College  "Unit." 

TOUCH:  "I  found  Uriah  (Heep)  reading  a  great 
fat  book,  with  such  demonstrative  attention  that  his  lank 
forefinger  followed  up  every  line  as  he  read,  and  made 
clammy  tracks  along  the  page  (or  I  so  fully  believed) 
like  a  snail.  ...  It  was  no  fancy  of  mine  about  his  hands, 
I  observed;  for  he  frequently  ground  the  palms  against 


SUPPORTING  THE  PICTURE  17 

each  other  as  if  to  squeeze  them  dry  and  warm,  besides 
often  wiping  them,  in  a  stealthy  way,  on  his  pocket-hand- 
kerchief. .  .  .  After  shaking  hands  with  me — his  hand 
felt  like  a  fish,  in  the  dark — he  opened  the  door  into  the 
street  a  very  little,  and  crept  out,  and  shut  it,  leaving  me 
to  grope  my  way  back  into  the  house ;  which  cost  me  some 
trouble  and  a  fall  over  his  stool." — Dickens,  "David 
Copperfield" 


STUDIES  IN  THE  FIVE  SENSES 
I 

SOUND 

In  the  following  exercises  limit  yourselves  to  one  or  two 
sentences  for  each. 

1.  The  sound  of  a  garden  hose  in  the  early  morning. 

2.  The  sound  of  a  distant  surf. 

3.  The  distant  sound  of  running  water. 

4.  The  sound  of  footsteps  through  dead  leaves. 

5.  The  sound  of  unloading  coal  down  a  chute. 

6.  The  sound  of  footsteps  on  a  board  walk. 

7.  The  sound  of  bells  striking  one  at  night. 

8.  The  sound  of  oars  at  twilight. 

9.  The  sound  of  a  train  crossing  a  bridge. 

10.  The  sound  of  a  stone  striking  the  water. 

11.  The  sound  of  a  woman's  voice  singing  in  a  lonely 

wood  at  the  dead  of  night. 

12.  The  sound  of  cheering  from  a  distance. 

13.  The  sound  of  wagon  wheels  going  through  a  pile 

of  loose  gravel. 

14.  The  sound  of  a  section  hand  driving  spikes  on  the 

railroad. 

15.  The    sound    of    boisterous    laughter    coming    from 

another  room. 

16.  The  whinnying  of  a  horse. 


i8  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

17.  The  sound  of  a  train  passing  at  full  speed. 

18.  The  sound  of  an  automobile  passing  rapidly. 

19.  The  sound  of  wind  blowing  through  a  keyhole. 

20.  The  sound  of  wind  in  the  telegraph  wires. 

21.  The  sound  of  rain  on  the  roof. 

22.  The  sound  of  a  fire  bell. 

23.  The  sounds  of  the  deepest  tones  of  the  organ. 

24.  The  sound  of  dogs  barking  at  night. 

25.  A  nocturnal  chorus  of  cats  outside  your  window  on 

a  moonlight  night  in  June. 

II 

TOUCH 

Limit  yourself  in  the  following .  exercises  to  a  short  para- 
graph for  each. 

1.  Using  the  sense  of  touch  alone,  describe  a  climb  up 

a  small  hill  where  there  are  many  jagged  rocks 
and  much  loose  gravel. 

2.  Describe  the  sensation  of  diving  into  a  lake  fed  with 

cool  springs. 

"The   cool   silver   shock   of   a  plunge   in  a  pool's 

living  water."  — Browning. 

(If  you  have  never  dived  describe  the  sensation  of 
entering  the  lake  "by  inches"). 

3.  Describe  the  sensation  of  running  across  your  back 

yard  without  hat  and  coat  on  a  bright  blustering 
day  in  January. 

4.  Describe  the   sensations    felt  while   working   in  the 

field  in  the  sun  on  a  tropical  day  in  July. 

5.  Imagine   you    are    stricken   blind   and    are    amusing 

yourself  with  pets  given  you  by  friends.  Describe 
in  less  than  ten  words  for  each,  the  sensation  to 
the  hand  of  the  following:  a  bantam  hen,  three 
baby  chicks,  a  Newfoundland  dog,  a  small  kitten, 
a  sheep  and  a  pony. 


SUPPORTING  THE  PICTURE  19 

-* 

III 

TASTE   AND   SMELL 

These  exercises  should  be  longer  than  the  others,  in  many 
cases  a  page  or  two  in  length. 

1.  Describe  a  boiled  dinner  on  the  farm. 

2.  Describe  the  walking  home  from  church  through  a 

part  of  town  where  housewives  are  busy  getting 
dinner. 

3.  Describe  the  eating  of  a  watermelon  picked  fresh 

on  the  vines. 

4.  Describe   the   cooking  of   wieners   and   coffee   at   a 

campfire,  and  the  roasting  of  marshmallows. 

5.  Describe    the    making    of    candy    in   your    mother's 

kitchen. 

6.  Describe  your   experience,   away   from   home,   at   a 

first-class  hotel,  in  ordering  and  being  served  with 
an  unusually  appetizing  meal,  after  you  have  been 
living  on  crackers  and  cheese  for  several  days  be- 
cause of  shortage  of  pocket  money. 

7.  Describe  your  experience  at  a  cheap  lunch  counter 

in  a  dirty  little  "joint"  where  you  are  forced  to 
get  a  bite  between  trains. 

IV 

ALL  FIVE  SENSES 

I  should  rank  the  five  senses  in  the  following  order  both  in 
regard  to  their  difficulty  for  description  and  in  regard  to  their 
effectiveness  for  conveying  images  to  readers:  ist,  sight 
when  applied  to  objects  in  motion;  2nd,  sound;  3rd,  smell; 
4th,  taste;  5th,  touch;  6th,  sight  as  applied  to  objects  at  rest, 
i.  e.,  outline,  form,  color,  etc. 

The  most  effective  combination  and  the  one  easiest  to 
handle  is  a  combination  of  the  first  and  second  in  the  list 


20  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

given  above.  Where  the  art  of  writing  has  especial  advan- 
tages over  the  art  of  painting  is  in  its  power  to  suggest  sound 
and  motion.*  Bearing  that  fact  in  mind  it  would  be  well  for 
you  to  make  it  a  special  point  when  choosing  scenes  to  intro- 
duce into  your  stories  to  select  those  which  give  the  greatest 
opportunity  for  describing  sound  and  motion.  In  describing 
the  following  scenes,  while  making  use  more  or  less  of  all 
five  senses,  select  the  moment  when  sound  and  activity  are  at 
their  height. 

1.  Passing  of  a  fire  wagon  down  a  crowded  street. 

2.  A  busy  hour  in  the  factory. 

3.  The  unloading  of  a  steamer. 

4.  The  children  pouring  from  the  school  door  at  recess 

time. 

5.  A  thunder  storm. 

6.  A  blustering  March  day  in  the  suburbs. 

7.  A  forest  fire. 

8.  When  Brown  hit  a  three-bagger  in  the  ninth. 

9.  At  the  fair. 

10.     The  waiting-room  at  the  Railroad  Station. 

*  "According  to  Aristotle  it  would  seem  that  though  the  arts  should  scorn 
none  of  the  abundance  and  variety  of  images  they  should  nevertheless  rely 
not  so  much  on  images  that  are  purely  tactual,  visual,  or  gustatory  as  upon 
those  which  are  auditory  and  motor."  Prof.  Raymond  M7  Weaver  of  Co- 
lumbia University  in  Eng.  Journ.,  February,  1919. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  STORY  EMERGES   FROM   THE  PICTURE 

A  dervish  traveling  alone  in  Arabia  met  two  merchants 
who  seemed  to  be  in  some  sort  of  trouble. 

"You  have  lost  a  camel?"  he  said  to  the  merchants. 

"Indeed  we  have,"  they  replied. 

"He  was  blind  in  the  right  eye,  I  believe,"  said  the 
dervish. 

"He  was." 

"And  lame  in  the  left  fore  leg?" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  merchants  joyfully. 

"Had  he  not  lost  a  front  tooth?" 

"He  had,"  both  replied. 

"He  was  loaded  with  wheat  on  one  side?" 

"True." 

"And  with  honey  on  the  other?" 

"Most  certainly  he  was.  Will  you  please  tell  us  where 
he  is?" 

The  dervish  said  he  could  not.  When  they  asked  why, 
he  said  he  had  not  seen  the  camel.  He  was  straightway 
haled  before  a  judge.  When  the  trial  came  off,  he  ex- 
plained how  he  knew  about  the  camel  to  the  judge's 
complete  satisfaction,  and  was  given  his  liberty. 

How  interesting  that  sounds!  How  eager  we  are  to 
hear  the  sequel  which  explains  how  the  Arab  constructed 
his  hypothesis  from  such  slender  clues  as  the  ants  and 
bees  and  other  signs  along  the  trail !  This  ancient  chron- 
icle, the  earliest  of  all  detective  stories,  has  been  introduced 
here  in  order  to  impress  upon  you  the  fact  that  if  you 
wish  to  become  a  good  story  writer  you  must  first  of  all 

21 


22  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

become  a  good  detective.  For  the  work  of  a  short  story 
writer  and  that  of  a  detective  are  exceedingly  similar. 
The  chief  difference  lies  in  their  angles  of  approach ;  for 
while  the  business  of  the  detective  is  to  construct  hy- 
potheses from  clues,  the  business  of  the  story  writer  is  to 
furnish  clues  for  the  reader  to  draw  hypotheses  from. 
But  in  both  cases  chief  emphasis  is  laid,  not  upon  what 
comes  into  the  picture,  but  upon  what  is  suggested  by  the 
picture.  The  importance  of  this  truth  cannot  be  im- 
pressed too  much  upon  you.  The  very  heart  and  marrow 
of  all  our  greatest  fiction  is  SUGGESTION. 

How  much  more  interesting  it  is  to  read  that  John 
Simpkins  wore  no  collar  and  that  his  neck  needed  shaving 
than  to  be  told  that  he  was  out  of  a  job!  How  much 
more  interesting  to  be  led  by  the  writer  to  a  room  where 
we  may  find  two  overturned  chairs,  a  half  dozen  poker 
chips,  a  pistol,  and  a  hat  with  a  hole  in  it,  than  to  be  told 
that  a  brawl  had  occurred  in  a  western  town! 

In  the  following  studies  it  is  not  what  you  tell  but  what 
you  suggest  that  counts.  It  is  only  the  significant  detail 
that  you  should  look  for.  We  are  now  concerned  not 
with  denotation  but  with  connotation. 

STUDIES  IN  SUGGESTION 
I 

Description  of  Place 

Describe  the  following  scenes,  taking  care  not  to  have  any 

people  appear  in  them. 

I.  Describe  a  room  in  such  a  way  as  to  show  that  the 
occupant  is  a  young  lady,  who  is  a  student,  is 
rich,  thinks  much  of  style,  is  rather  frivolous, 
hates  study,  and  has  red  hair. 


STORY  EMERGES  FROM  THE  PICTURE       23 

2.  Describe  a  library  so  as  to  show  that  the  owner  is 

something  of  a  hermit,  who  is  deeply  wrapt  up  in 
one  phase  of  study,  believes  he  has  a  message, 
but  is  impractical,  and  has  weak  eyes. 

3.  Describe  a  kitchen  so  as  to  show  that  the  cook  is 

Irish,  is  a  Catholic,  is  very  sentimental,  very  neat, 
but  behind  the  times  in  her  methods. 

4.  Describe  a  shoe-repair  shop  to  show  that  the  shoe- 

maker is  a  foreigner,  is  a  socialist,  opposed  to  war, 
is  something  of  a  reader,  and  is  lame. 

5.  Describe  the  interior  of  a  cabin  in  the  woods  so  as 

to  show  that  the  dwelling  is  a  long  way  from 
civilization,  and  is  occupied  by  a  retired  sea- 
faring man  who  lives  alone  and  subsists  largely 
on  the  results  of  his  hunting  and  fishing. 

6.  Describe  a  nursery  so  as  to  show  that  the   family 

has  one  small  son,  who  has  a  special  private  nurse, 
and  is  greatly  pampered  and  spoiled. 

7.  Describe  a  hat  rack  full  of  hats  and  caps  so  as  to 

show  that  a  large  family  dwells  in  the  house,  that 
they  are  all  interested  in  out-of-door  sports,  are 
in  general  slovenly  and  careless  in  their  habits, 
and  while  not  possessed  of  much  worldly  goods 
have  abundance  of  health  and  good  spirits.  Show 
that  the  father  enjoys  gardening. 

8.  Describe  a  lonely  spot  of  ground  by  a  pond  in  the 

woods  so  as  to  show  that  a  deer  has  been  killed 
there,  and  that  the  hunter  was  an  Indian  with  a 
gun,  and  was  accompanied  by  a  dog  with  a  long 
tail. 

9.  Describe  a  village  church  in  such  a  way  as  to  show 

that  the  congregation  are  Baptists,  are  not  very 
well  to  do,  but  that  one  member  of  the  church  is 
very  wealthy,  and  that  he  has  lost  his  wife  or  some 
other  member  of  his  family  within  the  last  five 
years;  also  show  if  you  can  that  the  congregation 


24  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

is  noted  for  its  singing,  or  at  least  gives  an  im- 
portant place  to  song  in  worship. 

IO.  Describe  a  village  store  so  as  to  show  that  the  village 
is  behind  the  times,  is  largely  foreign  in  popula- 
tion, contains  many  old  people,  and  is  rather 
famous  for  the  honesty  of  its  citizens.  Also  that 
the  storekeeper  is  good-natured  and  a  little  careless. 

II 

Description  of  Persons 

In  the  foregoing  exercises  you  were  required  to  suggest 
things  about  people  who  were  absent  without  letting  them 
enter  into  the  picture.  Now  reverse  the  process  and  suggest 
what  has  happened  by  inferences  that  may  be  drawn  from 
the  action  of  the  persons  themselves. 

Here  is  a  good  example  of  character  description  to  suggest 
something  that  has  happened,  taken  from  the  novel  "Adam 
Bede."  You  can  see  that  Adam  has  gone  through  a  terrible 
ordeal,  though  if  you  have  not  read  the  book  you  may  not, 
of  course,  guess  that  one  of  his  great  illusions  has  been 
shattered — his  faith  in  Hetty. 

"You  would  hardly  have  known  it  was  Adam  without  being 
told.  His  face  has  got  thinner  this  last  week;  he  has  the 
sunken  eyes,  the  neglected  beard  of  a  man  just  risen  from 
a  sick-bed.  His  heavy  black  hair  hangs  over  his  forehead, 
and  there  is  no  active  impulse  in  him  which  inclines  him  to 
push  it  off,  that  he  may  be  more  awake  to  what  is  around 
him.  He  has  one  arm  over  the  back  of  the  chair,  and  he 
seems  to  be  looking  down  at  his  clasped  hands." 

— "Adam  Bede"  by  George  Eliot. 

I.  Show  by  his  actions  that  a  young  man  who  is  wait- 
ing on  a  corner  is  a  student  at  a  military  academy 
returning  for  his  Christmas  vacation,  that  the  car 
is  late  and  the  day  is  cold. 


STORY  EMERGES  FROM  THE  PICTURE       25 

2.  Describe  the   reserved  lady  'in  the  next  pew,  ob- 

served during  a  service  which  moved  her  greatly. 

3.  Describe  a  business  man,  neat  and  capable,  seated 

at  his  desk,  so  as  to  show  that  he  is  a  man  of 
great  efficiency,  and  has  made  a  momentous  deci- 
sion. 

4.  Describe   a   patient   workman   eating   his   noonday 

lunch  by  his  wheelbarrow  so  as  to  show  that  he 
is  satisfied  with  his  job. 

5.  Describe  a  grandfather,  contentedly  seated  by  the 

fireplace,  smoking  his  evening  pipe,  so  as  to  show 
that  he  is  thinking  of  bygone  times.  (Do  not 
tell  us  his  thoughts.) 

6.  Describe  a  student  entering  a  room,  in  such  a  way 

as  to  show  that  he  has  just  returned  from  a  foot- 
ball game  where  his  team  lost. 

7.  Describe  the  same  student  entering  his  room  so  as 

to  show  that  he  has  just  come  from  an  examina- 
tion where  he  flunked. 

8.  Describe  the  manners  of  a  country  boy  so  as  to 

show  that  it  is  his  first  visit  to  the  city. 

9.  Describe  a  city  boy  in  the  country,  to  show  that  he 

has  never  been  on  a  farm  before. 

10.  Contrast  so  as  to  show  their  character  the  way  two 

students  enter  a  class  room  when  they  are  late, 
or  the  behavior  of  two  boys  during  a  football 
game. 

11.  Describe  the  new  minister  observed  during  his  first 

sermon,  so  as  to  show  that  he  is  young,  modest, 
but  understands  the  human  heart. 

12.  Describe  a  small  boy  at  a  circus  so  as  to  show  that 

he  is  a  typical  "boy." 

13.  At  an  art  gallery  you  remain  for  five  minutes  before 

a  great  picture  like  "The  Song  of  the  Lark." 
Relate  the  actions  of  one  person  who  was  very 
critical  and  yet  did  not  say  a  word.  Contrast 


26  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

him  with  a  noisy  group  who  were  making  many 
criticisms  regarding  the  work  of  art. 
14.  Describe  a  young  man,  cap  in  hand,  sitting  in  a 
parlor,  in  such  a  way  as  to  show  that  he  is  bash- 
ful, is  waiting  for  his  best  girl,  and  that  she  is 
late. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  STORY  EMERGES  FROM  DIALOGUE 

In  the  first  chapter  reference  was  made  to  a  definition 
of  the  short  story  as  a  series  of  pictures  fastened  together 
by  dialogue.  You  have  been  for  some  time  producing 
pictures  of  various  types,  and  you  will  probably  hail  as 
a  welcome  change  an  opportunity  of  trying  your  hand  at 
the  somewhat  more  complicated  problem  of  making  people 
talk. 

If  you  wish  to  handle  dialogue  successfully  there  are 
two  cardinal  principles  that  you  must  never  forget:  one 
is  that  you  should  be  acquainted  with  your  characters,  and 
the  other  is  that  you  should  keep  your  eye  on  them  while 
they  talk. 

The  failure  of  many  beginners  to  make  their  characters 
talk  naturally  is  due  to  the  fact  that  they  do  not  know 
their  characters  any  better  than  their  readers  do.  A  full 
discussion  of  the  methods  of  getting  acquainted  with  your 
characters  will  be  reserved  until  a  later  chapter,  but  it 
should  be  perfectly  obvious  to  any  student  that  without 
sympathetic  realization  of  the  inner  motives  and  feelings 
of  a  character,  an  accurate  rendering  of  his  spoken  dis- 
course is  impossible. 

Another  cause  of  failure  in  handling  dialogue  success- 
fully comes  from  taking  your  eye  off  the  characters  while 
they  talk.  Any  one  who  plays  golf  knows  what  happens 
when  he  removes  his  eye  from  the  ball  when  he  swings 
his  club.  What  is  true  in  golf  is  doubly  true  in  dialogue. 

27 


28  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

As  soon  as  you  cease  to  visualize  the  character  who  is 
talking,  his  words  are  likely  to  cease  to  become  his  words 
and  to  become  anybody's  words — most  probably  your  own. 
That  is  one  of  the  many  reasons  why  long  speeches  in  a 
story  are  bad.  The  writer  takes  his  eye  off  his  character 
and  begins  to  make  a  speech  himself.  Even  Mr.  Wells, 
a  past  master  of  the  art  of  fiction,  has  frequently  fallen 
into  that  error.  Charles  Dickens,  Jane  Austen,  and 
Arnold  Bennett,  on  the  other  hand,  never  lose  sight  of 
their  characters. 

Some  writer  has  said  that  when  writing  dialogue  you 
should  enter  into  each  character  in  turn.  I  am  inclined 
to  counsel  against  that.  Provided  you  know  your  charac- 
ters all  the  advantages  that  would  accrue  from  this  "sub- 
jective" method  can  be  obtained  by  careful  visualization, 
and,  what  is  very  important,  many  of  the  pitfalls  of  the 
method  avoided.  Therefore  I  say,  take  the  attitude  of 
the  interested  observer.  Watch  the  facial  expressions  and 
gestures  of  your  characters.  Let  them  stand  before  you 
as  living  breathing  personalities,  and  then  try  faithfully 
to  convey  to  your  readers  the  vivid  impression  which  they 
make  on  you.  In  other  words,  make  use  of  the  powers 
of  visualization  developed  in  the  exercises  in  the  opening 
chapters  of  this  book. 

As  soon  as  the  talking  begins,  watch  intently  the  "re- 
action" of  each  character  on  the  other.  Much  of  this 
reaction  will  naturally  be  without  significance,  foolish, 
inane.  Do  not  record  every  bit,  but  look  hard  for  the 
significant,  the  suggestive,  the  striking  facial  expression 
and  gesture.  This  little  element  of  "stage  business"  is 
one  of  the  "small  things  that  make  the  large  differences," 
and  a  student  cannot  give  too  much  attention  to  it.  "From 
most  amateur  narratives,"  writes  Miss  Blanche  Colton 


THE  STORY  EMERGES  FROM  DIALOGUE       29 

Williams  in  "A  Handbook  on  Story  Writing,"  "I  should 
judge  that  young  writers  regard  gesture  and  business  as 
conventionalized  devices  for  propping  the  remarks  of  the 
characters.  'So  speaking,  she  drew  herself  to  her  full 
height/  'He  thoughtfully  flicked  the  ashes  from  his  cigar,' 
'With  a  glad  cry  she  threw  her  arms  about  him,'  and 
other  statements  equally  venerable  suggest  by  their  faith- 
ful presence  that  the  student  relies  upon  the  hackneyed." 
Note  in  contrast  to  such  amateur  methods  the  consci- 
entious nicety  used  by  the  real  masters  of  the  art,  as 
illustrated  in  the  dialogues  at  the  close  of  this  chapter. 
Read  these  selections  and  see  how  far  they  possess  the 
two  cardinal  requirements  of  good  dialogue :  Naturalness, 
and  inter estingness.  If  you  do  so  you  will  come  to  the 
following  conclusions:  Not  only  should  you  know  your 
character;  not  only  should  you  visualize  him  when  he 
talks;  but  to  these  two  rules,  you  should  add  one  more: 
Speed  up  the  conversation;  make  it  sprightly.  Here  are 
a  few  suggestions  that  may  help  you  to  do  this : 

1.  Make  your  speeches  short.    No  one  in  real  life  talks 
in  long  sentences,  and  no  one  except  on  platforms  makes 
ten  minute  speeches. 

2.  Do  not  hesitate  to  have  one  speaker  break  in  on 
another.     Interruptions  and  rapidity  in  "taking  one's  cues" 
keep  the  dialogue  lively. 

3.  Instead  of  answering  a  question,  have  the  character 
addressed  ask  another. 

4.  Instead  of  a  character  answering  a  question  with  a 
statement  of  what  was  -done,  have  him  tell  why  it  was 
done. 

5.  Have  a  character  ignore  the  question  and  anticipate 
the  next  and  answer  that  instead. 

6.  Have  a  character  answer  a  question  by  using  differ- 


30  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

ent  words  from  those  of  the  questioner.     (See  the  open- 
ing scene  in  Hamlet  for  an  example.) 

In  short,  unless  you  have  a  special  reason  for  making 
your  dialogue  move  slowly  you  should  move  along  in  your 
conversation  just  as  you  go  up  a  flight  of  stairs  in  a  hurry 
— two  and  three  steps  at  a  time. 

The  following  dialogue  between  a  father  and  a  son  is 
taken  from  The  Harbor,  by  Ernest  Poole,  and  is  written 
in  such  a  way  as  to  show  that  the  son  has  studied  in 
Europe  and  is  ambitious  to  become  a  writer,  and  that  the 
father  is  very  reticent,,  understands  nothing  about  the 
profession  of  writing,  and  yet  is  very  anxious  for  his  son 
to  succeed,  and  that  both  of  them  dearly  love  the  mother 
who  has  died  recently: 

But  what  an  embarrassing  job  it  is  to  get  acquainted 
with  one's  father !  When  Sue  had  left  us  after  dinner, 
there  had  been  a  few  brief  remarks  and  then  this  long 
tense  silence.  I,  too,  pretended  to  be  reading. 

"Your  mother  thought  a  lot  of  you,  boy."  He  spoke 
at  last  so  abruptly  that  I  looked  up  at  him  with  a  start, 
and  saw  him  watching  me  anxiously. 

"Yes,  sir."  I  looked  quickly  down,  and  our  eyes  did 
not  meet  again  after  that." 

"It  was  her  pluck  that  kept  you  in  Paris — while  she 
was  dying." 

I  choked:  "I  know." 

"You  don't  know — not  how  she  wanted  you  back — 
you'll  never  know.  I  wanted  to  write  you  to  come  home." 

"I  wish  you  had!" 

"She  wouldn't  hear  of  it !" 

"I  see."  Another  silence.  Why  couldn't  I  think  of 
something  to  say? 

"She  kept  every  letter  you  wrote  her.  They're  up^ there 
in  her  bureau  drawer.  She  was  always  reading  'em — 


THE  STORY  EMERGES  FROM  DIALOGUE       31 

over  and  over.  She  thought  a  lot  of  your  writing,  boy — 
of  what  you  would  do  when — when  she  was  dead."  The 
last  came  out  almost  fiercely.  I  waited  a  moment,  got 
hold  of  myself. 

"Yes,  sir,"  I  brought  out  at  last. 

"I  hope  you'll  make  it  all  worth  while." 

"I  will.  I'll  try.  I'll  do  my  best."  I  did  not  look  up, 
for  I  could  still  feel  his  anxious  eyes  upon  my  face. 

"Do  you  want  to  go  back  to  Paris?" 

"No,  sir !  I  want  to  stay  right  here !"  What  was  the 
matter  with  my  fool  voice? 

"Have  you  got  any  plans  for  your  writing  here  ?  How 
are  you  going  about  it  to  start?" 

"Well,  sir,  to  begin  with — I've  got  some  stuff  I  did 
abroad." 

"Stories?" 

"Not  exactly " 

"Poems?"     My  father's  look  was  tragic. 

"No." 

And  I  tried  to  explain  what  I  had  been  doing.  But 
my  attempts  to  tell  him  of  my  work  in  Paris  were  as 
forced  and  as  pathetic  as  his  efforts  to  attend.  More  and 
more  halting  grew  our  talk,  and  it  ended  in  a  silence  that 
seemed  to  have  no  end.  Then  I  went  to  the  fireplace, 
knocked  the  ashes  out  of  my  pipe,  refilled  it  and  relit  it. 
When  I  returned  he  was  reading  his  book,  and  with  deep 
relief  I  took  up  mine.  That  much  of  it  was  over ! — 
Ernest  Poole,  "The  Harbor." 


STUDIES  IN  DIALOGUE 

I.  Write  a  conversation  between  two  college  students  so 
as  to  show  that  they  are  roommates,  and  that  one  is  a  foot- 
ball player  of  unusual  ability,  but  rather  weak  in  English  and 
very  conscious  of  his  limitations;  that  the  other  is  of  a 
cheery,  sociable  nature,  somewhat  given  to  wasting  time, 
although  exceedingly  proud  of  his  modest  but  famous  room- 
mate. 


32  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

2.  Write  a  conversation  between  a  minister  and  a  little 
boy  so  as  to  show  that  the  minister  is  absent-minded,  well 
meaning  but   doesn't  understand   small   boys;   and  that  the 
little  boy  is  mischievous,  doesn't  know  much  about  Jeremiah 
or  Bunyan  or  Izaak  Walton,  but  knows  all  about  the  best 
swimming  places  and  knows  the  batting  average  of  all  the 
star  players  in  the  American  League. 

3.  A  college  man  and  a  boarding-school  girl  went  canoe- 
ing in  August  on  a  salt  water  inlet.    Losing  all  track  of  time 
they  were  left  by  the  ebbing  tide  aground  in  the  salt  marsh, 
surrounded  by  acres  of  bottomless  mud  crawling  with  small 
sea  beasts.    A  violent  thunder  storm  approached.    What  did 
they  say  and  do  during  the  first  few  minutes  after  discov- 
ering their  plight?     Don't  try  to  rescue  them.     That  is  an- 
other story. 

4.  Write  a  conversation  between  a  negro,  who  has  had 
no  education  but  who  has  obtained  possession  of  one  of  your 
textbooks  which  contain  large  words,  and  one  of  the  members 
of  your  college   faculty. 

5.  Write   a   conversation   between   two   characters   taken 
from  different  novels  which  you  have  read. 

6.  Write  a  conversation  between  a  man  and  a  small  boy 
so  as  to  show  that  the  man  is  a  burglar,  has  had  a  very  inter- 
esting though  criminal  past,  and  has  once  been  a  star  on  a 
high  school  football  team  in  his  little  home  town  of  Georgia, 
and  that  the  little  boy  is  alone  in  the  house,  is  expecting  an 
uncle  and  has  a  new  football  which  he  is  very  anxious  to 
initiate. 

7.  Write  an  imaginary  conversation  between  two  rather 
dignified   characters   you   know,   possibly   a   member   of   the 
college  faculty,  and  the  superintendent  of  your  home  school, 
if  they  should  meet  in  some  unconventional  place  such  as  at 
a  cheap  lunch  counter,  or  in  a  side  show  at  the  fair. 

8.  Write  a  conversation  between  two  persons  who  meet 
at  a  railway  station,  so  as  to  show  that  one  is  a  farmer  who 
has  recently  shipped  a  loa'd  of  hogs  and  feels  good-natured 


THE  STORY  EMERGES  FROM  DIALOGUE       33 

toward  all  the  wcrld;  and  that  the  other  is  a  young  woman, 
waiting  for  a  train  which  is  late,  that  she  has  just  received 
a  telegram  announcing  her  mother's  death,  and  that  she  is 
very  intense  and  refined,  yet  very  brave  and  desires  to  keep 
her  grief  hidden  from  strangers. 

9.  Study  "The  House  Opposite"  as  a  model  of  effective 
dialogue. 

THE  HOUSE  OPPOSITE  * 

ANTHONY    HOPE 

We  were  talking  over  the  sad  case  of  young  Algy 
Groom ;  I  was  explaining  to  Mrs.  Hilary  exactly  what  had 
happened. 

"His  father  gave  him,"  said  I,  "a  hundred  pounds,  to 
keep  him  for  three  months  in  Paris  while  he  learnt 
French." 

"And  very  liberal  too,"  said  Mrs.  Hilary. 

"It  depends  where  you  dine,"  said  I.  "However,  that 
question  did  not  arise,  for  Algy  went  to  the  Grand  Prix 
the  day  after  he  arrived — 

"A  horse  race?"  asked  Mrs.  Hilary,  with  great  contempt. 

"Certainly   the    competitors    are    horses,"    I  Ire  joined.  [ 
"And  there  he,  most  unfortunately,  lost  the  whole  sum, 
without  learning  any  French  to  speak  of." 

"How  disgusting!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hilary,  and  little 
Miss  Phyllis  gasped  in  horror. 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Hilary,  with  much  bravery  (as  it 
struck  me),  "his  father's  very  well  off." 

"That  doesn't  make  it  a  bit  better,"  declared  his  wife. 

"There's  no  mortal  sin  in  a  little  betting,  my  dear.  Boys 
will  be  boys — 

"And  even  that,"  I  (interposed*  "wouldn't  matter  if  we 
could  only  prevent  girls  from  being  girls." 

Mrs.  Hilary,  taking  no  notice  whatever  of  me,  pro- 
nounced sentence.  "He  grossly  deceived  his  father,"  she 
said,  and  took  up  her  embroidery. 

*  Copyright,    1901,  by   Henry   Holt  and   Company. 


34  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

"Most  of  us  have  grossly  deceived  our  parents  before 
now,"  said  I.  "We  should  all  have  to  confess  something 
of  the  sort." 

"I  hope  you're  speaking  for  your  own  sex,"  observed 
Mrs.  Hilary. 

"Not  more  than  yours,"  said  I.  "You  used  to  meet 
Hilary  on  the  pier  when  your  father  wasn't  there — you 
told  me  so." 

"Father  had  authorized  my  acquaintance  with  Hilary." 

"I  hate  quibbles,"  said  I. 

There  was  a  pause.  Mrs.  Hilary  stitched:  Hilary  ob- 
served that  the  day  was  fine. 

"Now,"  I  pursued  carelessly,  "even  Miss  Phyllis  here 
has  been  known  to  deceive  her  parents." 

"Oh,  let  the  poor  child  alone,  anyhow,"  said  Mrs. 
Hilary. 

"Haven't  you?"  said  I  to  Miss  Phyllis. 

I  expected  an  indignant  denial.  So  did  Mrs.  Hilary, 
for  she  remarked  with  a  sympathetic  air, — 

"Never  mind  his  folly,  Phyllis  dear." 

"Haven't  you,  Miss  Phyllis?"  said  I. 

Miss  Phyllis  grew  very  red.  Fearing  that  I  was  caus- 
ing her  pain,  I  was  about  to  observe  on  the  prospects  of 
a  Dissolution  when  a  shy  smile  spread  over  Miss  Phyllis's 
face. 

"Yes,  once,"  said  she,  with  a  timid  glance  at  Mrs. 
Hilary,  who  immediately  laid  down  her  embroidery. 

"Out  with  it,"  I  cried  triumphantly.  "Come  along,  Miss 
Phyllis.  We  won't  tell,  honour  bright!" 

Miss  Phyllis  looked  again  at  Mrs.  Hilary.  Mrs.  Hilary 
is  human. 

"Well,  Phyllis  dear,"  said  she,  "after  all  this  time  I 
shouldn't  think  it  my  duty — 

"It  happened  only  last  summer,"  said  Miss  Phyllis. 

Mrs.  Hilary  looked  rather  put  out. 

"Still,"  she  began. 

"We  must  have  the  story,"  said  I. 

Little  Miss  Phyllis  put  down  the  sock  she  had  been 
knitting. 


THE  STORY  EMERGES  FROM  DIALOGUE       35 

"I  was  very  naughty,"  she  remarked.  "It  was  my  last 
term  at  school." 

"I  know  that  age,"  said  I  to  Hilary. 

"My  window  looked  out  towards  the  street.  You're 
sure  you  won't  tell  ?  Well,  there  was  a  house  oppo- 
site— 

"And  a  young  man  in  it,"  said  I. 

"How  did  you  know  that?"  asked  Miss  Phyllis,  blush- 
ing immensely. 

"No  girls'  school  can  keep  up  its  numbers  without  one," 
I  explained. 

"Well,  there  was  one,  anyhow,"  said  Miss  Phyllis. 
"And  I  and  two  other  girls  went  to  a  course  of  lectures 
at  the  Town  Hall  on  literature  or  something  of  that  kind. 
We  used  to  have  a  shilling  given  us  for  our  tickets." 

"Precisely,"  said  I.     "A  hundred  pounds!" 

"No,  a  shilling,"  corrected  Miss  Phyllis.     "A  hundred 

pounds!     How  absurd,  Mr.  Carter!     Well,  one  day  I — 
j " 

"You're  sure  you  wish  to  go  on,  Phyllis?"  asked  Mrs. 
Hilary. 

"You're  afraid,  Mrs.  Hilary,"  said  I,  severely. 

"Nonsense,  Mr.  Carter.     I  thought  Phyllis  might — 

"I  don't  mind  going  on,"  said  Miss  Phyllis,  smiling. 
"One  day  I — I  lost  the  other  girls." 

"The  other  girls  are  always  easy  to  lose,"  I  observed. 

"And  on  the  way  there, — oh,  you  know,  he  went  to 
the  lectures." 

"The  young  dog,"  said  I,  nudging  Hilary.  "I  should 
think  he  did!" 

"On  the  way  there  it  became  rather — rather  foggy." 

"Blessings  on  it !"  I  cried ;  for  Miss  Phyllis's  demure 
but  roguish  expression  delighted  me. 

"And  he — he  found  me  in  the  fog." 

"What  are  you  doing,  Mr.  Carter  ?"  cried  Mrs.  Hilary, 
angrily. 

"Nothing,  nothing,"  said  I.  I  believe  I  had  winked  at 
Hilary. 

"And— and  we  couldn't  find  the  Town  Hall." 


36  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

"9h,  Phyllis!"  groaned  Mrs.  Hilary. 

Little  Miss  Phyllis  looked  alarmed  for  a  moment.  Then 
she  smiled. 

"But  we  found  the  confectioner's,"  she  said. 

"The  Grand  Prix,"  said  I,  pointing  my  ringer  at  Hilary. 

"He  had  no  money  at  all,"  said  Miss  Phyllis. 

"It's  ideal !"  said  I. 

"And — and  we  had  tea  on — on " 

"The  shilling?"  I  cried  in  rapture. 

"Yes,"  said  little  Miss  Phyllis,  "on  the  shilling.  And 
he  saw  me  home." 

"Details,  please,"  said  I. 

Miss  Phyllis  shook  her  head. 

"And  left  me  at  the  door." 

"Was  it  still  foggy?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  or  he  wouldn't  have " 

"Now  what  did  he ?" 

"Come  to  the  door,  Mr.  Carter,"  said  Miss  Phyllis, 
with  obvious  wariness.  "Oh,  it  was  such  fun!" 

"I'm  sure  it  was." 

"No,  I  mean  when  we  were  examined  in  the  lectures. 
I  bought  the  local  paper,  you  know,  and  read  it  up,  and 
I  got  top  marks  easily,  and  Miss  Green  wrote  to  mother 
to  say  how  well  I  had  done." 

"It  all  ends  most  satisfactorily,"  I  observed. 

"Yes,  didn't  it?"  said  little  Miss  Phyllis. 

Mrs.  Hilary  was  grave  again. 

"And  you  never  told  your  mother,  Phyllis  ?"  she  asked. 

"No-no,  Cousin  Mary,"  said  Miss  Phyllis. 

I  rose  and  stood  with  my  back  to  the  fire.  Little  Miss 
Phyllis  took  up  her  sock  again,  but  a  smile  still  played 
about  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

"I  wonder,"  said  I,  looking  up  at  the  ceiling,  "what 
happened  at  the  door?"  Then,  as  no  one  spoke,  I 
added, — 

"Pooh !    I  know  what  happened  at  the  door." 

"I'm  not  going  to  tell  you  anything  more,"  said  Miss 
Phyllis. 

"But  I  should  like  to  hear  it  in  your  own " 


THE  STORY  EMERGES  FROM  DIALOGUE       37 

Miss  Phyllis  was  gone !  She  had  suddenly  risen  and 
run  from  the  room. 

"It  did  happen  at  the  door,"  said  I. 

"Fancy  Phyllis !"  mused  Mrs.  Hilary. 

"I  hope,"  said  I,  "that  it  will  be  a  lesson  for  you." 

"I  shall  have  to  keep  my  eye  on  her,"  said  Mrs.  Hilary. 

"You  can't  do  it,"  said  I  in  easy  confidence.  I  had  no 
fear  of  little  Miss  Phyllis  being  done  out  of  her  recrea- 
tions. "Meanwhile,"  I  pursued,  "the  important  thing  is 
this :  my  parallel  is  obvious  and  complete." 

"There  is  not  the  least  likeness,"  said  Mrs.  Hilary, 
sharply. 

"As  a  hundred  pounds  are  to  a  shilling,  so  is  the  Grand 
Prix  to  the  young  man  opposite,"  I  observed,  taking  my 
hat,  and  holding  out  my  hand  to  Mrs.  Hilary. 

"I  am  very  angry  with  you,"  she  said.  "You've  made 
the  child  think  there  was  nothing  wrong  in  it." 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  said  I.  "Look  how  she  enjoyed  tell- 
ing it." 

Then,  not  heeding  Mrs.  Hilary,  I  launched  into  an 
apostrophe. 

"O  divine  House  Opposite!"  I  cried.  "Charming 
House  Opposite!  What  is  a  man's  own  dull,  uneventful 
home,  compared  with  that  Glorious  House  Opposite! 
If  only  I  might  dwell  for  ever  in  the  House  Opposite!" 

"I  haven't  the  least  notion  what  you  mean,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Hilary,  stiffly.  "I  suppose  it's  something  silly- 


I  looked  at  her  in  some  puzzle. 

"Have  you  no  longing  for  the  House  Opposite?"  I 
asked. 

Mrs.  Hilary  looked  at  me.  Her  eyes  ceased  to  be  abso- 
lutely blank.  She  put  her  arm  through  Hilary's  and 
answered  gently, — 

"I  don't  want  the  House  Opposite." 

"Ah,"  said  I,  giving  my  hat  a  brush,  "but  maybe  you 
remember  the  House — when  it  was  Opposite?" 

Mrs.  Hilary,  one  arm  still  in  Hilary's,  gave  me  her  hand. 

She  blushed  and  smiled. 


38  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

"Well,"  said  she,  "it  was  your  fault :  so  I  won't  scold 
Phyllis." 

"No,  don't,  my  dear,"  said  Hilary,  with  a  laugh. 

As  for  me,  I  went  downstairs,  and,  in  absence  of  mind, 
bade  my  cabman  to  drive  to  the  House  Opposite.  But  I 
never  got  there. 


CHAPTER  VI 
GATHERING  MATERIAL  FOR  STORIES 

In  the  exercises  of  the  first  five  chapters  you  have  been 
gradually  approaching  the  field  of  narrative  writing.  In 
the  exercises  on  page  20,  sound  and  motion,  and  again 
on  pages  22-26,  studies  in  inference,  the  story  behind  the 
picture  has  almost  burst  through  the  thin  partition  that 
divides  description  from  narration.  In  the  Studies  in 
Dialogue  (pages  31-33)  the  story  has  actually  begun  to 
show  signs  of  organic  life. 

If  you  are  a  born  story-teller  you  have  already  begun 
to  feel  that  inner  urge  to  break  forth  from  the  bonds  of 
the  chrysalis  stage  and  try  your  wings  as  a  full-fledged 
weaver  of  tales.  But  many  of  those  who  never  feel  this 
inner  urge  possess  the  rudimentary  instincts  of  the  story- 
teller lying  dormant  and  undeveloped  within  them. 

Due  to  our  highly  organized  and  ultramechanical  age 
too  little  has  been  done  to  develop  and  bring  this  instinct 
out  into  the  light.  Moreover,  the  very  exigencies  of  our 
present-day  educational  program — which  aims  to  enlarge 
the  boundaries  of  the  individual's  experience  by  com- 
municating to  him  the  accumulated  stores  of  human 
experience  of  the  past — has  well  nigh  smothered  in  him 
whatever  artistic  impulse  he  may  have  originally  pos- 
sessed. In  the  face  of  the  wealth  and  richness  of  this 
second-hand  experience,  the  individual  tends  to  lose  sight 
of  his  own  immediate  contacts — and  it  is  these  immediate 
contacts  with  life — his  own  personal  reactions  to  his  sur- 

39 


40  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

roundings — that  differentiate  the  real  artist,  and  inciden- 
tally the  real  story-teller,  from  the  rest  of  human  kind. 

It  is  the  purpose  of  this  chapter  to  re-open  for  you  those 
closed  avenues  of  approach  which  may  lead  to  a  direct 
contact  with  life.  It  will  not  be  necessary  for  you  to 
leave  your  college  and  to  go  forthwith  and  live  in  the 
slums,  or  go  and  sail  to  the  South  Sea  islands,  or  take  a 
trip  through  Europe  to  obtain  this  direct  contact  with  life. 
While  a  period  of  travel  and  varied  experiences  may  be 
of  considerable  value  to  a  writer,  it  is  by  no  means 
essential.  Every  one  has  within  his  own  reach  an  abun- 
dance of  ready-made  material  for  story  writing,  provided 
he  understands  just  what  to  look  for  in  the  life  about  him. 
The  so-called  "literary  genius"  is  usually  nothing  more 
than  the  man  who  has  the  power  of  seeing  the  dramatic 
in  the  trivial  little  incidents  of  life,  and,  in  addition  to 
that,  the  power  of  putting  what  he  sees  into  words.  What 
you  should  try  to  cultivate  at  this  stage,  then,  is  the  power 
of  seeing  the  dramatic  in  the  life  about  you.  As  the  sun's 
white  light  may  be  separated  by  means  of  the  prismatic 
lens  into  the  seven  colors  of  the  rainbow,  so  we  shall  find 
that  what  is  vaguely  called  "the  dramatic  in  life"  can  be 
separated  into  five  dramatic  elements.  -  When  thus  divided 
we  shall  find  it  much  more  easily  comprehended.  Take 
an  inventory,  then,  of  the  extent  of  the  power  you  may 
possess  of  observing  the  dramatic  elements  in  life. 

First  of  all,  there  is  ACTION.  Anything  which  moves 
has  the  germ  of  drama  in  it.  Are  you  interested  in  travel, 
mountain-climbing,  exploring,  hunting,  sailing  the  seven 
seas?  Do  you  stop  and  stare  when  crowds  pour  in  or 
out  of  a  great  coliseum,  or  when  the  troops  go  marching 
up  the  avenue,  or  when  wild  horses  go  dashing  over  the 
plain  ? 


GATHERING  MATERIAL  FOR  STORIES       41 

If  you  love  action  you  possess  the  power  of  seeing  the 
first,  albeit  the  most  elementary,  of  the  dramatic  elements 
of  life.  Scott  and  Cooper  possessed  this  power  to  a  great 
degree.  Among  short  story  writers  we  naturally  think 
of  Stevenson,  O.  Henry,  Jack  London,  and  Kipling. 
Adventure  stories  are  built  on  action. 

Second  comes  CONCENTRATION.  Are  you  inter- 
ested in  seeing  life  at  its  intense  moments?  When  the 
boy  gets  his  first  pair  of  trousers,  when  he  earns  his  first 
dollar,  when  he  wins  his  first  promotion;  when  the  girl 
delivers  the  Gettysburg  Address  before  the  whole  village, 
when  she  gets  her  first  love  letter,  her  first  proposal  of 
marriage;  when  the  man  sees  bankruptcy  staring  him  in 
the  face ;  when  the  criminal  faces  disclosure  of  his  crime ; 
when  the  hero  faces  death  for  his  country — all  these  are 
dramatic  moments,  and  furnish  excellent  material  for 
fiction.  Writers  who  possessed  to  an  almost  uncanny 
degree  the  power  of  seeing  the  concentrated  moments  in 
life  are  Poe,  Hawthorne,  Maupassant,  Conrad,  Dostoiev- 
sky, and  Hugo. 

Third  comes  CAUSE  and  EFFECT.  When  you  see 
an  old  woman  coming  from  a  dark  prison  building  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  does  your  mind  start  bridging  the  gap 
between  those  tears  and  the  cause  of  those  tears?  When 
you  see  two  men  whispering  together  on  a  street  corner 
do  you  try  to  fgrrst  out  their  secret?  When  you  see  a 
silent  man  appearing  day  after  day  in  the  same  room  of 
an  art  gallery  without  brush  or  sketching  pad,  what  do 
you  infer?  Until  you  see  the  chain  that  connects  cause 
and  effect  and  lifts  the  little  trivial  things  of  life  into 
larger  significance  you  have  not  the  story-writing  instinct. 
Things  are  never  dramatic  because  they  just  happen.  To 
be  truly  dramatic  they  must  proceed  from  known  causes 


42  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

by  logical,  although  often  recondite,  steps  to  logical,  al- 
though often  surprising,  results. 

Perhaps  no  writers  possessed  this  power  to  greater 
degree  than  A.  Conan  Doyle  and  Poe,  among  short-story 
writers,  and  George  Eliot  and  Hardy  among  novelists. 

Fourth  comes  HUMAN  INTEREST.  Anything 
which  is  human,  which  reveals  character  in  a  living, 
human  way,  is  dramatic.  Do  old  memories  stir  within 
you  when  you  pass  a  school  at  recess  time  and  see  the 
boys  and  girls  marching  out,  when  you  pass  an  old  swim- 
ming hole  in  summer,  or  see  a  family  group  gather  round 
the  hearth  on  a  winter's  night  ?  The  little  boy  who  builds 
an  Indian  wigwam  in  his  back-yard,  the  old  grandmother 
who  sits  and  sews  in  the  chimney  corner,  the  young  man 
who  loves  to  fall  in  love,  but  cannot  make  his  love  stay 
put,  all  are  sources  more  or  less  of  human  interest.  ' 

The  study  of  human  foibles  and  fancies  and  human 
weaknesses  makes  good  material  from  which  the  dramatic 
fiction  of  the  milder  type  is  spun.  All  character  writers 
and  local-color  writers  stress  this  side  of  the  dramatic. 
Mark  Twain,  Bret  Harte,  Charles  Dickens,  in  both  the 
novel  and  the  short  story,  illustrate  this  dramatic  element 
at  its  best. 

Fifth  and  most  important  of  all  comes  CONFLICT. 
Do  you  love  a  fight,  even  a  dog  fight  or  a  chicken  fight? 
Do  you  feel  an  impulse  to  crowd  up  on  the  outer  fringe 
of  the  circle  and  see  how  a  scrap  between  two  newsboys 
turns  out?  Do  you  like  contests  of  physical  skill,  such 
as  the  out-of-door  games  and  sports  of  your  college? 
Above  all,  are  you  interested  in  the  struggle  of  two  wills? 
In  business,  in  love,  in  war,  in  a  thousand  different  forms 
such  struggles  are  to  be  found  on  every  hand.  When  man 
is  not  struggling  with  some  one  else  for  mastery,  he  may 


GATHERING  MATERIAL  FOR  STORIES      43 

be  engaged  in  a  struggle  between  two  contending  motives 
or  forces  within  himself.  A  maiden  with  a  divided 
allegiance  between  duty  to  her  parents  and  love  for  her 
sweetheart;  a  young  man  with  a  struggle  between  his 
desire  for  wealth,  and  desire  for  justice — these  and  count- 
less other  examples  of  inner  conflicts  make  the  very  es- 
sence of  the  drama — and  hence  of  the  short  story.  Hugo, 
Shakespeare,  and  Dumas  furnish  excellent  samples  of  this 
element  of  conflict.  Among  short-story  writers  we  think 
of  Jack  London  and  Rex  Beach. 

It  would  be  well  at  this  stage  for  the  student  to  arm 
himself  with  a  "familiar  note  book"  and  spend  a  week 
jotting  down  ideas  for  plots.  There  is  no  need  to  draw 
distinctions  between  the  various  dramatic  elements;  any- 
thing that  has  the  seed  of  drama  in  it  should  be  grist 
falling  to  his  mill.  There  are  three  sources  from  which 
he  may  draw  almost  endless  numbers  of  plots. 

First,  the  autobiographical  source.  Many  men  have 
definitely  prepared  themselves  for  fiction  writing  by 
jotting  down  sketches  of  their  own  lives.  Anthony  Trol- 
lope  says  that  two  things  made  him  a  novelist :  one  the 
habit  of  day  dreaming ;  the  other,  the  habit  of  keeping  a 
journal  without  cessation  throughout  most  of  his  life. 
Daudet  consciously  prepared  for  his  life-work  by  writing 
his  "Boyhood  Sketches."  Arnold  Bennett  affirms  that  all 
the  greatest  novels  are  autobiographical  in  nature. 
TurgeniefFs  "Sportsman's  Sketches"  were  a  direct  pre- 
lude to  his  fiction  writing. 

Second,  personal  observation.  William  Dean  Howells 
has  been  accused  of  sitting  in  his  study  and  taking  down, 
verbatim,  the  conversation  of  his  wife  and  her  callers  in 
the  adjoining  room.  Hawthorne  kept  notebooks  of  his 


44  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

observations;  Dickens  took  notes  of  what  he  saw  in  his 
journeys.  Professional  writers  are  always  taking  notes 
of  what  they  see,  and  the  more  notes  one  takes  the  more 
he  sees. 

Third,  the  newspapers.  If  one  wishes  to  go  beyond 
the  range  of  his  own  personal  experience  and  his  own 
personal  observations,  he  will  find  that  the  newspaper  will 
furnish  him  all  the  range  he  needs.  This  does  not  mean 
to  imply  that  youthful  writers  should  cultivate  the  news- 
paper reading  habit.  Nothing  is  less  conducive  to  good 
writing  than  the  habit  of  wasting  time  over  a  newspaper. 
But  an  occasional  hour  spent  in  going  through  newspaper 
files,  looking  for  ideas  for  plots,  will  usually  prove  very 
fruitful  in  results.  O.  Henry  got  many  of  his  ideas  for 
plots  from  the  newspaper.  Browning  took  the  theme  of 
his  "Ring  and  the  Book"  from  a  newspaper  bought  at  an 
Italian  bookstall.  Observe  this  caution,  however:  go  to 
the  newspapers  for  plots — but  not  for  style.  One  of  the 
faults  of  our  present-day  fiction  is  due  to  the  fact  that 
too  many  of  our  story  writers  have  received  their  only 
training  as  newspaper  reporters. 

EXERCISES  IN  GATHERING  IDEAS  FOR  STORIES 

I.     Material  drawn   from  personal   experience. 

A.  Jot  down  a  reminder  of  five  incidents  in  your  life  which 
were  marked  by  action. 

1.  A  walking  trip. 

2.  An  automobile  journey. 

3.  Hunting  or  fishing. 

4.  An  exciting  game. 

5.  Climbing  a  mountain. 

B.  Jot  down  five  incidents  in  your  life  which  were  marked 
by  intense  concentration. 


GATHERING  MATERIAL  FOR  STORIES      45 

1.  A  night  alone  in  a  thunderstorm. 

2.  Your  most  serious  accident. 

3.  The  first  time  you  thought  you  were  in  love. 

4.  Your  most  serious  fright. 

5.  Your  most  thrilling  triumph. 

C.  Make  a  note  of  three  situations  in  your  life  where  a 
result  definitely  followed  from  a  distinct  cause. 

1.  The  time  when  your  long  habit  of  procrastination 

led  to  a  serious  "con"  in  math. 

2.  When  your  hobby  of  reading  on  the  side  everything 

you  could  find  on  a  certain  subject  led  to  your 
being  prepared  for  an  unusual  emergency. 

3.  When  you  met  a  man  in  college  you  had  known  in 

childhood. 

4.  When   something  you   had   been   working    for   and 

dreaming  about  came  true. 

D.  Cite  five  incidents  drawn  from  your  own  life  filled  with 
human  interest. 

1.  An  incident  which  reveals  you  as  a  mischievous  boy, 

2.  As  a  bashful  lover 

3.  As  a  typical  college  freshman. 

4.  As  a  conceited  prig. 

5.  As  a  loyal  friend  or  a  devoted  son. 

E.  Cite  five  examples  of  conflict. 

1.  When  your  road  lay  between  desire  and  duty. 

2.  When  you  fought  your  boyhood  rival. 

3.  When  you  played  in  the  football  game. 

4.  When  you  wrested  the  leadership  of  the  class. 

5.  The  most  serious  struggle  you  ever  fought. 

NOTE:  The  list  under  each  assignment  is  merely  to  stimulate  the  stu- 
dent's memory  and  speed  him  along  this  first  and  very  important  assignment 
in  plot  gathering.  The  student  should  be  warned  that  in  this  assignment 
not  mere  "topics"  are  wanted,  but  complete  sentences  that  give  a  clear  and 
SUGGESTIVE  reminder  of  the  event  he  wishes  to  record.  For  instance 
under  a  walking  trip  he  might  write  "A  tramp  I  took  at  age  of  fifteen 
from  St.  Paul  to  La  Crosse  was  in  late  autumn  when  the  odor  of  new 
mown  hay  filled  the  air,  and  a  camp  fire  felt  good  at  night." 


46  '  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

II.     Material  drawn  from  observation  of  others. 
Cite  an  example  of  each  of  the  dramatic  elements  drawn 
from  personal  observation,  especially  of  conflict,  concentra- 
tion and  human  interest. 

III.     Material  drawn  from  newspapers. 
From    newspaper    accounts    select    examples    of    each    of 
the   dramatic  elements,   especially  of   conflict,   concentration 
and  human  interest. 

To  THE  TEACHER:  While  the  students  are  occupying  themselves  outside 
of  the  recitation  hours  gathering  material  for  stories,  it  might  be  profitable 
to  make  use  of  the  class  periods  for  some  impromptu  assignments  from  the 
list  at  close  of  Chapter  XI.  To  the  average  student  who  has  not  yet  a  very 
firm  command  of  English  style  I  am  inclined  to  recommend  one  or  two 
studies  in  narrative  movement.  After  a  student  has  found  his  material, 
and  selected  his  plot,  the  big  problem  is  how  to  make  his  narrative 
"njgrch." 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  STORY  FROM  CHARACTER 

"She  was  one  of  those  pretty  and  charming  girls  who 
are  sometimes,  as  if  by  a  mistake  of  destiny,  born  in  a 
family  of  clerks.  She  had  no  dowry,  no  expectations,  no 
means  of  being  known,  understood,  loved,  wedded,  by  any 
rich  and  distinguished  man  ;  and  she  let  herself  be  married 
to  a  little  clerk  at  the  Ministry  of  Public  Instruction. 

"She  dressed  plainly  because  she  could  not  dress  well, 
but  she  was  as  unhappy  as  though  she  had  really  fallen 
from  her  proper  station ;  since  with  women  there  is  neither 
caste  nor  rank ;  and  beauty,  grace,  and  charm  act  instead 
of  family  and  birth.  Natural  fineness,  instinct  for  what 
is  elegant,  suppleness  of  wit,  are  the  sole  hierarchy,  and 
make  from  women  of  the  people  the  equals  of  the  very 
greatest  ladies. 

"She  suffered  ceaselessly,  feeling  herself  born  for  all  the 
delicacies  and  all  the  luxuries.  She  suffered  from  the 
poverty  of  her  dwelling,  from  the  wretched  look  of  the 
walls,  from  the  worn-out  chairs,  from  the  ugliness  of  the 
curtains.  All  those  things,  of  which  another  woman  of 
her  rank  would  never  even  have  been  conscious,  tortured 
her  and  made  her  angry.  The  sight  of  the  little  Breton 
peasant  who  did  her  humble  house-work  aroused  in  her 
regrets  which  were  despairing,  and  distracted  dreams. 
She  thought  of  the  silent  antechambers  hung  with 
Oriental  tapestry,  lit  by  tall  bronze  candelabra,  and  of 
the  two  great  footmen  in  knee-breeches,  who  sleep  in  the 
big  arm-chairs,  made  drowsy  by  the  heavy  warmth  of  the 
hot-air  stove.  She  thought  of  the  long  salons  fitted  up 
with  ancient  silk,  of  the  delicate  furniture  carrying  price- 
less curiosities,  and  of  the  coquettish  perfumed  boudoirs 
made  for  talks  at  five  o'clock  with  intimate  friends,  with 

47 


48  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

men  famous  and  sought  after,  whom  all  women  envy  and 
whose  attention  they  all  desire. 

"When  she  sat  down  to  dinner,  before  the  round  table 
covered  with  a  table-cloth  three  days  old,  opposite  her 
husband,  who  uncovered  the  soj^-tuieen  and  declared  with 
an  enchanted  air,  'Ah,  the  good  pot-au-feu  !  I  don't  know 
anything  better  than  that/  she  thought  of  dainty  dinners, 
of  shining  silverware,  of  tapestry  which  peopled  the  walls 
with  ancient  personages,  and  she  thought  of  delicious 
dishes  served  on  marvellous  plates,  and  of  the  whispered 
gallantries  which  you  listen  to  with  a  sphinx-like  smile, 
while  you  are  eating  the  pink  flesh  of  a  trout  or  the  wings 
of  a  quail. 

"She  had  no  dresses,  no  jewels,  nothing.  And  she 
loved  nothing  but  that ;  she  felt  made  for  that.  She  would 
so  have  liked  to  please,  to  be  envied,  to  be  charming,  to  be 
sought  after." 

— From  "The  Necklace''  by  Maupassant. 

A  careful  study  of  the  above  description,  which  is  in 
many  respects  the  most  perfect  description  of  a  character 
in  the  history  of  the  short  story,  will  satisfy  you  that  here 
ia_a_character  which,  if  placed  in  a  suitable  situation, 
would  almost  of  necessity  make  a  story.  The  writer  of 
such  a  description  would  be  in  the  position  similar  to 
that  of  the  little  boy  who  stands  at  the  top  of  a  hill  with  a 
handful  of  snow  in  his  hand  with  which  he  wishes  to  make 
a  giant  snowball.  All  he  needs  to  do  is  to  give  it  a  push 
and  the  law  of  gravitation  will  do  the  rest. 

For  a  person  who  has  the  least  trace  of  the  story- 
telling instinct  the  task  of  writing  a  character  story,  then, 
is  very  simple,  provided  that  he  can  find  the  right  kind  of 
character  to  put  into  it.  ^ 

But  what  constitutes  the  "rj^htJcind^LcJiaracter'' ?  A 
careful  study  of  the  passage  quoted  above  will  help  to 
make  this  clear.  Maupassant  has  shown  us  by  this  ex- 


THE  STORY  FROM  CHARACTER          49 


ample  that  we  should  have  our  Jeading  character  dom- 
inated by  some  great  desire  or  ambition  or  passion,. or,  to 
,  state  what  has  become  a  commonplace  among  writers  on 
short  story  technique,  we  should  give  him  a  dominant 
trait.  Maupassant  also  shows  us  that  if  this  dominant 
frait  can  be  in  ^  contrast  with  his  surroundings  all  the 
better.  Contrast  is  the  life  of  fiction.  A  cannon  ball 
flying  through  the  air  unchecked  has  no  story  to  tell. 
But  as  soon  as  it  meets  an  obstacle  "something  happens." 

It  is  a  mistake  to  think,  however,  that  this  obstacle  must 
always  be  outside  of  the  character.  Sometimes  this  ele- 
ment of  contrast  can  better  be  supplied  in  the  character 
himself.  In  fact,  I  know  of  nothing  that  .can  better  help 
the  novice  to  give  an  impression  of  individuality  and 
reality  to  a  character  than  to  give  his  leading  character — 
as  a  sort  of  counter-irritant  or  an  antidote  to  his  dominant 
V  trait — a  striking  contradiction.  It  safeguards  the  novice 
against  making  his  leading  character  a  pure  idealization 
on  the  one  hand  or  a  caricature  on  the  other.  It  rounds 
him  out  and  gives  him  that  little  touch  of  nature  that 
makes  us  all  akin.  It  injects  that  little  mite  of  human 
contradiction  that  adds  so  much  to  the  humanness  and 
interestingness  of  all  of  us. 

It  has  been  said  that  all  heroes  of  tragedy  have  been 
noble  men  with  some  imperfection,  often  a  very  incon- 
spicuous little  trait,  but  which  was  large  enough  to  serve 
for  their  undoing.  Even  Achilles  had  his  vulnerable  heel. 
Therefore,  I  say,  if  you  wish  to  give  an  impression  of 
reality  and  of  individuality  to  your  characters,  look  first 
for  the  dominant  trait,  and  then  search  long  and  patiently 
for  that  vulnerable  heel.  If  an  old  gentleman  is  kind  and 
generous  toward  everyone,  warp  his  humanitarianism 
just  a  trifle  by  giving  him  an  inordinate  prejudice  against 


50  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

men  who  wear  monocles  and  drop  their  r's.  If  you  have 
a  villain  totally  depraved,  save  him  from  complete  carica- 
ture by  giving  him  a  tender  feeling  for  little  children. 
If  your  heroine  persists  in  being  beautiful,  mar  her  beauty 
just  a  bit  by  a  dash  of  freckles  or  a  snub  nose.  If  your 
hero  falls  into  copy-book  lines,  give  him  something  to 
worry  about  if  it  is  nothing  more  than  an  inherited  fear 
of  cats  or  an  insatiable  and  undignified  appetite  for  choco- 
late nut-sundaes. 

But  having  chosen  a  character  and  having  endowed  him 
with  a  dominant  trait  and  a  striking  contradiction  is  not 
enough.  Before  you  can  put  him  successfully  into  a  story 
you  must  know  him  like  a  book.  You  must  live  with  your 
character,  eat  with  him,  stroll  with  him,  find  out  all  that 
you  can  about  his  past,  his  family,  the  people  who  influ- 
enced him  most,  his  likes  and  his  dislikes,  and  his  little 
mannerisms  and  tricks  of  conversation.  Not  until  you 
have  a  clear  conception  of  the  man  can  you  hope  to  convey 
a  clear  conception  to  others. 

Turn  to  the  great  writers  of  fiction  who  have  excelled 
in  character  drawing  and  you  will  find  that  many  of  the 
best  ones  wrote  biographies  of  their  characters  before 
they  put  them  into  books.  This  was  the  habitual  practice 
of  Turgenieff,  Ibsen,  Jane  Austen,  and  Arnold  Bennett. 
These  biographies  were  of  course  intended  only  for  the 
author's  eyes.  Turgenieff,  however,  frequently  put  his 
bodily  into  his  books.  Tolstoy,  Victor  Hugo,  Dickens, 
Thackeray  and  George  Eliot  frequently  put  what  amounted 
to  pretty  complete  dossiers  of  their  characters  right  into 
their  novels. 


"Nothing  that  Turgenieff  had  to  say  could  be  more 
interesting  than  his  talk  about  his  own  work,  his  manner 


THE  STORY  FROM  CHARACTER          51 

of  writing.  What  I  have  heard  him  tell  of  these  things 
was  worthy  of  the  beautiful  results  he  produced ;  of  the 
deep  purpose,  pervading  them  all,  to  show  us  life  itself. 
The  germ  of  a  story,  with  him,  was  never  an  affair  of  plot 
— that  was  the  last  thing  he  thought  of :  it  was  the  repre- 
sentation of  certain  persons.  The  first  form  in  which  a 
tale  appeared  to  him  was  as  the  figure  of  an  individual,  or 
a  combination  of  individuals,  whom  he  wished  to  see  in 
action,  being  sure  that  such  people  must  do  something 
very  special  and  interesting.  They  stood  before  him 
definite,  vivid,  and  he  wished  to  know,  and  to  show,  as 
much  as  possible  of  their  nature.  The  first  thing  was 
to  make  clear  to  himself  what  he  did  know,  to  begin  with ; 
and  to  this  end,  he  wrote  out  a  sort  of  biography  of  each 
of  his  characters,  and  everything  that  they  had  done  and 
that  had  happened  to  them  up  to  the  opening  of  the  story. 
He  had  their  dossier,  as  the  French  say,  and  as  the  police 
has  that  of  every  conspicuous  criminal.  With  this  mate- 
rial in  his  hand  he  was  able  to  proceed ;  the  story  all  lay 
in  the  question,  What  shall  I  make  them  do?" 

— Henry  James,  "Partial  Portraits" 

Nothing  furnishes  better  material  for  fiction  than  biog- 
raphies of  actual  men  and  women.  "The  only  sort  of 
reading  I  count  as  indispensable  to  a  young  writer,"  says 
Fanny  Kemble  Johnson  in  "Best  College  Short  Stories" 
(Stratford  Press),  "is  the  sort  that  makes  him  genuinely 
familiar  with  the  great  Biographies,  Autobiographies, 
Letters  and  Diaries  of  literature.  And  that  because  it 
forms  a  super-course  in  Human  Nature,  which  is  the 
proper  study  for  a  young  writer."  Nothing  could  fur- 
nish you  better  practice  for  fiction  writing  than  the  habit 
of  keeping  a  little  notebook  into  which  you  would  reg- 
ularly write  each  day  a  character  sketch  of  someone  you 
had  met,  or  of  some  imaginary  character  you  had  been 
thinking  about. 


52  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

In  fact,  if  you  were  planning  to  devote  a  year  to  the 
study  of  short-story  writing,  I  should  recommend  that 
you  devoted  the  first  half  of  that  year  to  the  study  of 
character.  Not  only  would  such  a  study  make  you  a 
better  writer,  but  it  would  increase  your  understanding 
of  human  nature,  and  would  enlarge  your  sympathies  and 
enrich  your  life. 

EXERCISES 

I.      THE    ELABORATE    STUDY    OF    A    CHARACTER 

In  the  following  exercise  you  will  be  asked  to  subject 
your  character  to  three  processes  before  he  is  "ripe"  for 
your  story.  The  first  process,  that  of  making  out  the 
"dossier,"  is  perhaps  the  most  tedious  and  mechanical, 
but  if  well  done  it  should  result  in  a  page  of  information 
that  will  enable  you  to  proceed  with  a  clearness  of  eye 
and  a  sureness  of  touch  when  you  come  to  the  later 
stage  which  you  could  not  get  in  any  other  way.  The 
second  process  is  that  of  visualizing  the  character  in  your 
own  imagination.  This  will  also  take  some  time,,  but  will 
not  require  any  writing.  The  last  process,  that  of  making 
the  finished  character  sketch  suitable  for  actual  use  in 
your  story,  should  take  much  less  time.  At  least  the  first 
draft  may  be  written  with  a  certain  speed  and  abandon. 
This  depends  of  course  upon  the  amount  of  time  and 
thought  you  have  given  to  the  preliminary  processes. 
It  is  worth  while  to  remember,  however,  the  advice  given 
earlier  in  this  book — that  what  is  written  in  hot  blood 
must  be  revised  in  cold  blood.  In  fact,  I  do  not  know 
of  any  type  of  writing  that  improves  so  much  under 
frequent  re- writing  as  does  the  describing  of  character. 


THE  STORY  FROM  CHARACTER          53 

A.  FIRST  PROCESS:  THE  DOSSIER  OF  THE  CHARACTER. 

Choose  a  character,  either  from  those  discussed  in  this 
chapter  or  one  of  your  own  creation,  and  answer  the  follow- 
ing questions  about  him: 

1.  Where  was  he  born  and  reared?     In  city,  country, 

small  town,  east,  west?  Near  mountains,  sea, 
woods,  prairie? 

2.  Parents?     Type — New  England,  Southern,  Western 

ranchman?  Father's  profession,  mother's  charac- 
ter, etc.?  Any  peculiar  idiosyncrasies  likely  to 
influence  the  child? 

3.  Significant  facts  of  childhood  life?    Types  of  books 

he  liked  best,  or  games,  girls,  playmates?  What 
he  wanted  to  make  of  himself?  In  some  epochal 
event  we  may  find  cause  for  reversal  of  law  of 
heredity. 

4.  Is  he  earnest  and  sympathetic,  or  flippant  and  cyni- 

cal? Cheerful  or  melancholy?  Independent  and 
original,  or  conservative  and  conventional  ?  Posi- 
tive in  his  opinions?  A  man  of  high  ideals? 

5.  State   in   large   letters   his   dominant  trait,   and  his 

most  striking  contradiction. 

B.  SECOND  PROCESS:  VISUALIZING  THE  CHARACTER. 
Having  completed  your  catalogue  of  details  read  it  over 

again,  trying  hard  to  realize  just  what  your  character  would 
look  like.  Then  close  your  eyes  and  visualize  him,  noting 
especially  manner,  tricks  of  expression  or  gesture: 

1.  As  he  is  visiting  with  friends  by  the  open  fireplace. 

2.  In  his  office  or  field  at  work. 

3.  Leaning   on   a   gate   talking  to   his   little    sister   or 

mother. 

4.  Alone  in  his  room  reading  a  book,  or  thinking  hard. 
In  which  attitude  did  you  find  you  could  visualize  him  best? 
This  process  is  not  to  be  written. 


54  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

c.     THIRD  PROCESS:  DESCRIBING  THE  CHARACTER. 

Now  you  are  ready  to  put  him  into  story.  Selecting  the 
dominant  trait,  the  unifying  fact  about  him,  write  a  descrip- 
tion that  you  think  would  do  for  the  first  paragraph  in  a 
story.  Two  or  three  rapid  attempts  at  this  may  be  necessary 
before  you  are  thoroughly  satisfied.  Make  either  an  ex- 
ternal description  of  him,  or  make  it  more  subjective — an 
exposition  of  his  inner  motives  and  feelings.  It  may  prove 
helpful  to  glance  over  some  of  the  descriptions  in  the  short 
stories  in  Part  II  to  find  successful  methods  of  procedure. 

II.       FURTHER    STUDIES    IN    CHARACTER    DRAWING 

"He  was  of  middle  height,  sinuous,  muscular,  and 
slightly  round-shouldered,  dressed  in  a  coarse  blue  blouse 
full  of  paint  spots  and  girded  by  a  leather  strap ;  his 
trousers,  bespattered  with  paint,  he  wore  tucked  into  his 
tall  boots.  Kostovsky  had  the  appearance  of  a  common 
workman,  with  long  muscular  hands,  like  those  of  a 
gorilla,  and  of  great  strength ;  his  far  from  good-looking, 
but  very  characteristic  face,  with  its  prominent  cheek 
bones,  and  long  reddish  mustaches  breathed  of  power. 
From  under  knitted  brows  gloomily,  and  at  the  same  time 
good-naturedly,  looked  out  a  pair  of  large  blue  eyes. 
The  main  peculiarity  of  his  face  was  an  expression  of 
impetuousness  and  energy ;  his  left  eye  was  embellished 
with  a  large  discoloration,  the  mark  of  a  well-aimed  blow 
— and  his  coarse  reddish  locks  bristled  rebelliously  in  all 
directions.  On  the  whole,  Kostovsky  impressed  one  as  a 
bold,  untamable  being." — Petrov. 

A  careful  examination  of  the  above  description  will 
disclose  to  you  that  one  of  the  most  widely  useful  prin- 
ciples of  emphasis  in  character  drawing  is  for  the  most 
striking  detail,  possibly  of  color  or  of  movement,  to  come 
first;  and  for  the  most  significant  detail,  as  of  feature  or 
of  mannerism  or  the  like,  to  be  saved  for  the  last. 


THE  STORY  FROM  CHARACTER          55 

A.  CHARACTERS  TAKEN   FROM    REAL  LIFE. 

Making  use  of  the  principle  illustrated  in  the  description 
above  (as  well  as  in  the  description  of  Mathilde  at  first  of 
chapter)  write  a  paragraph  description  of  some  person  that 
you  have  observed  in  real  life,  who,  you  think,  would  make 
a  suitable  character  for  a  story. 

B.  A  LIST  OF  CHARACTERS  THAT  WOULD  MAKE  STORIES. 

Select  one  of  the  following  and  write  a  paragraph  descrip- 
tion suitable  for  the  opening  of  a  story : 

1.  A  man,  brutal  and  brusk  as  to  character  and  man- 

ner, but  who  is  constantly  doing  good  in  secret 
ways. 

2.  A  neighborhood  gossip  who  says  exceedingly  criti- 

cal things  to  every  one's  face  as  though  it  were 
her  personal  right,  but  who  will  not  allow  any 
one  else  to  do  so,  at  least  behind  their  backs,  and 
who  is,  in  fact,  true  gold,  with  a  heart  as  big  as 
a  mountain. 

3.  A  cabaret  dancer  with  whom  all  the  young  bloods 

are  infatuated,  who  bitterly  hates  her  work,  loves 
Browning,  Shakespeare,  and  the  ideals  of  home. 

4.  A  street  laborer  or  lumber  jack  who  has  once  re- 

ceived a  Harvard  degree.  What  is  his  dominant 
trait? 

5.  A  janitor  who  once  led  in  a  great  charge  which  re- 

sulted in  his  receiving  the  decoration  of  the 
Legion  of  Honor.  What  is  his  dominant  trait? 

6.  A  shoemaker  or  carpenter  who  possesses  a  myste- 

rious past — and  who  is  even  rumored  to  have 
come  from  a  noble  Hungarian  family. 

7.  A  man  of  twenty-five  or  thirty  who  always  scoffed 

at  love,  suddenly  subjected  to  an  attack  of  the 
malady  in  its  most  acute  form. 

8.  A   girl   pledged   to   the    suffragette   cause    and    an 

avowed  manhater  suddenly  in  the  toils  of  love  in 


56  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

its  most  hopeless,  or  humiliating  or  sentimental 
form. 

9.  A  judge,  cold  and  scrupulously  honest,  but  obsessed 
by  an  abnormal  affection  for  a  scapegrace  nephew 
who  bears  his  name. 

10.  A  member  of  a  family,  who  is  the  family  pride  and 

pet  among  many  brothers  and  sisters,  but  who 
possesses  one  weakness  or  fault  (which  does  not, 
however,  arouse  disgust  or  hostility). 

11.  A  daring,  brutal  criminal,  whose  one  saving  grace 

is  his  love  for  little  children,  and  who  knows 
from  experience  just  what  to  do  when  a  little 
one  is  afflicted  with  croup  in  the  dead  of  night. 

12.  A  minister,   who,   in   spite   of   Puritan  upbringing, 

possesses  unusual  dramatic  ability,  and  secretly 
loves  dime  novels  and  melodrama. 

13.  A  village   roustabout   who   believes   in  the   adage, 

"When  in  doubt,  tell  the  truth,"  but  who  has  a 
habit  since  boyhood  of  rarely  being  in  doubt. 

14.  A  village  loafer  whose  conversation  in  the  village 

store,  without  his  knowing  it,  has  been  for  years 
following  the  most  approved  lines  of  logic  and 
public  speaking,  a  man  liked  by  all  but  generally 
considered  hopelessly  good  for  nothing. 

15.  A  man  very  ambitious  to  make  an  impression  in 

society,  but  whose  early  life  has  been  spent 
among  users  of  slang  and  profanity. 

16.  An  old  woman,   over  threescore   and  ten,   who  is 

more  innately  progressive  and  open  to  new  ideas 
than  any  one  in  the  village. 

17.  A  man  possessed  of  unusual  physical  courage — a 

hunter  or  an  athlete — but  who  possesses  an  un- 
reasoning fear  of  barking  dogs. 

18.  A   very   over-particular   person   who   is   habitually 

careless  of  one  thing. 

19.  A   very   selfish   person   who    forgets   himself   onl> 


THE  STORY  FROM  CHARACTER  57 

under  one  circumstance.    Have  a  friend  try  to 
make  that  circumstance  in  his  life  habitual. 

20.  A  woman  in  a  prosaic  situation  whose  love  of  mys- 

tery and  romance  are  counterbalanced  by  no  sense 
of  humor. 

21.  A  proud,   strict  woman   of  great  reserve,   who   is 

secretly   hungry    for   the    impulsive   unreasoning 
affection  of  young  people. 

22.  A  leader  of  a  choir  who  cannot  himself  sing. 


III.      THE    PLOT-BUILDING    GAME 
A.      USING    CHARACTERS    FROM    LITERATURE. 

Divide  the  class  into  two  divisions  and  to  one  division 
assign  one  of  the  men  described  below,  and  to  the  other 
division  assign  the  other  man.  To  both  divisions  assign 
the  description  of  the  woman  at  the  beginning  of  this 
chapter.  If  the  teacher  desires  he  may  add  other  charac- 
ters to  this  list.  Have  each  student  take  the  characters 
thus  assigned  and  outline  a  plot  for  a  story,  using  the 
following  questions  as  a  basis: 

1.  Conceive  that  circumstances  have  thrown  these  two 

characters  together  in  a  rather  unusual  situation, 
in  such  a  way  that  they  are  forced  to  become  very 
intimately  acquainted.  Which  character  would 
dominate  the  other? 

2.  What   spirit   would   be   uppermost — love,    antipathy, 

hate? 

3.  Probable  outcome. 

4.  In  a  sketchy  way  outline  the  development  of  such  a 

story. 

(i)  "When  Presley  reached  Annixter's  ranch  house, 
he  found  young  Annixter  himself  stretched  in  his  ham- 
mock behind  the  mosquito-bar  on  the  front  porch,  reading 


58  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

"David    Copperfield"    and    gorging    himself    with    dried 
prunes. 

"Annixter — after  the  two  had  exchanged  greetings — 
complained  of  terrific  colics  all  the  preceding  night.  His 
stomach  was  out  of  whack,  but  you  bet  he  knew  how 
to  take  care  of  himself;  the  last  spell  he  had  consulted 
a  doctor  at  Bonneville,  a  gibbering  busyface  who  had 
filled  him  up  to  the  neck  with  a  dose  of  some  hog- wash 
stuff  that  had  made  him  worse — a  healthy  lot  the  doctors 
knew,  anyhow.  His  case  was  peculiar.  He  knew ;  prunes 
were  what  he  needed,  and  by  the  pound. 

"Annixter,  who  worked  the  Quien  Sabe  ranch — some 
four  thousand  acres  of  rich  clay  and  heavy  loams — was 
a  very  young  man,  younger  even  than  Presley,  like  him 
a  college  graduate.  He  looked  never  a  year  older  than 
he  was.  He  was  smooth-shaven  and  lean  built.  But 
his  youthful  appearance  was  offset  by  a  certain  male 
cast  of  countenance,  the  lower  lip  thrust  out,  the  chin 
large  and  deeply  cleft.  His  university  course  had  hard- 
ened rather  than  polished  him.  He  still  remained  one 
of  the  people,  rough  almost  to  insolence,  direct  in  speech, 
intolerant  in  his  opinions,  relying  upon  absolutely  no 
one  but  himself;  yet,  with  all  this,  of  an  astonishing 
degree  of  intelligence,  and  possessed  of  an  executive 
ability  little  short  of  positive  genius.  He  was  a  ferocious 
worker,  allowing  himself  no  pleasure,  and  exacting  the 
same  degree  of  energy  from  all  his  subordinates.  He 
was  widely  hated,  and  as  widely  trusted.  Every  one 
spoke  of  his  crusty  temper  and  bullying  disposition,  in- 
variably qualifying  the  statement  with  a  commendation 
of  his  resources  and  capabilities.  The  devil  of  a  driver, 
a  hard  man  to  get  along  with,  obstinate,  contrary,  can- 
tankerous; but  brains!  No  doubt  of  that;  brains  to  his 
boots.  One  would  like  to  see  the  man  who  could  get 
ahead  of  him  on  a  deal.  Twice  he  had  been  shot  at, 
once  from  an  ambush  on  Osterman's  ranch,  and  once 
by  one  of  his  own  men  whom  he  had  kicked  from  the 
sacking  platform  of  his  harvester  for  gross  negligence. 
At  college,  he  had  specialized  on  finance,  political  economy, 


THE  STORY  FROM  CHARACTER  59 

and  scientific  agriculture.  After  his -graduation  (he  stood 
almost  at  the  very  top  of  his  class)  he  had  returned  and 
obtained  the  degree  of  civil  engineer.  Then  suddenly 
he  had  taken  a  notion  that  a  practical  knowledge  of  law 
was  indispensable  to  a  modern  farmer.  In  eight  months 
he  did  the  work  of  three  years,  studying  for  his  bar 
examinations.  His  method  of  study  was  characteristic. 
He  reduced  all  the  material  of  his  text-books  to  notes. 
Tearing  out  the  leaves  of  these  note-books,  he  pasted 
them  upon  the  walls  of  his  room;  then,  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, a  cheap  cigar  in  his  teeth,  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
he  walked  around  and  around  the  room,  scowling  fiercely 
at  his  notes,  memorizing,  devouring,  digesting.  At  in- 
tervals he  drank  great  cupfuls  of  unsweetened,  black 
coffee.  When  the  bar  examinations  were  held,  he  was 
admitted  at  the  very  head  of  all  the  applicants,  and  was 
complimented  by  the  judge.  Immediately  afterwards  he 
collapsed  with  nervous  prostration,  his  stomach  "got  out 
of  whack,"  and  he  all  but  died  in  a  Sacramento  boarding- 
house,  obstinately  refusing  to  have  anything  to  do  with 
doctors,  whom  he  vituperated  as  a  rabble  of  quacks,  dos- 
ing himself  with  a  patent  medicine  and  stuffing  himself 
almost  to  bursting  with  liver  pills  and  dried  prunes. 

"He  had  taken  a  trip  to  Europe  after  this  sickness  to 
put  himself  completely  to  rights.  He  intended  to  be  gone 
a  year  but  returned  at  the  end  of  six  weeks,  fulminating 
abuse  of  European  cooking.  Nearly  his  entire  time  had 
been  spent  in  Paris ;  but  of  this  sojourn  he  had  brought 
back  but  two  souvenirs,  an  electro-plated  bill-hook  and  an 
empty  bird  cage  which  had  tickled  his  fancy  immensely." 
— Frank  Norris,  "The  Octopus/' 

(2)  "The  first  face  in  the  appearance  of  the  younger 
man  which  might  have  struck  the  observer  was,  that  his 

fravity,  though  conspicuous  in  the  expression  of  his 
matures,  and  evidently  springing  from  the  mind  was  not 
indicated  by  his  person.  Gravity  is  not  inconsistent  with 
passion,  which  it  exalts  by  purifying  it;  but  the  idea 
of  gravity  could  with  difficulty  be  associated  with  an 
exterior  remarkable  above  all  for  personal  beauty.  Being 


60  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

in  the  holy  orders,  he  must  have,  been  at  least  four  and 
twenty,  but  he  seemed  scarcely  more  than  eighteen.  He 
possessed  those  gifts  at  once  in  harmony  with,  and  in 
opposition  to,  each  other,  a  soul  which  seemed  created 
for  exalted  passion  and  body  created  for  love.  He  was 
fair,  rosy- fresh,  slim  and  elegant  in  his  severe  attire, 
and  he  had  the  cheeks  of  a  young  girl,  and  delicate  hands. 
His  movements  were  natural  and  lively,  though  subdued. 
Everything  about  him  was  pleasing,  elegant,  almost  volup- 
tuous. The  beauty  of  his  expression  served  to  correct 
this  excess  of  personal  attraction.  His  open  smile,  which 
showed  his  teeth,  regular  and  white  as  those  of  a  child, 
had  something  in  it  pensive,  even  devotional.  He  had 
the  gracefulness  of  a  page,  mingled  with  the  dignity  of 
a  bishop. 

"His  fair  hair,  so  fair  and  golden  as  to  be  almost 
effeminate,  clustered  over  his  white  forehead,  which  was 
high  and  well  formed.  A  slight  double  line  between  his 
eyebrows,  awakened  associations  with  studious  thought. 

"Those  who  saw  him  felt  themselves  in  the  presence 
of  one  of  those  natures,  benevolent,  innocent  and  pure, 
whose  progress  is  in  the  inverse  sense  with  that  of  vulgar 
minds;  natures  whom  illusion  renders  wise,  and  whom 
experience  makes  enthusiasts." 

— Hugo,  "Toilers  of  the  Sea." 

B.      USING  CHARACTERS  FROM  CLASS  THEMES. 

Divide  the  class  into  two  divisions  and  have  one  division 
bring  to  class  an  original  description  of  a  young  woman 
suitable  for  a  story,  and  have  the  other  division  bring 
an  original  description  of  a  young  man.  When  the  class 
assembles  have  students  exchange  their  descriptions  with 
those  written  by  students  in  the  other  division.  With  the 
character  drawn  and  the  character  of  his  own  description 
as  starting  points,  have  each  student  plan  a  story  in  the 
class  period,  according  to  the  plan  outlined  above. 


THE  STORY  FROM  CHARACTER  61 

IV.      STEPS   IN   WRITING  AN   ORIGINAL   STORY   FROM 
CHARACTER 

A.  Read  "The  Spurious  One"  on  page  109  and  take 
warning  from  it  to  avoid  the  pitfalls  of  the  conventional, 
hackneyed   character    types.      Then   choose   a   character 
from  your  list   of   original   sketches   that   is   "new"   or 
original  enough  to  make  a  story.     If  you  have  not  yet 
described  such  a  character  try  to  conceive  of  one.    Write 
a  dossier  of  the  character  thus  chosen,  if  you  have  not 
already  done  so. 

B.  Read  "The  Gay  Old  Dog"  and  the  constructive 
criticism  that  accompanies  it.    Then  make  a  story  outline 
suitable  to  develop  the  character  that  you  have  chosen. 

C.  Using  the  character  selected  in  A  above,  and  using 
the  plan  worked  out  in  B   write  an  original  character 
story  of  from  1500  to  2500  words. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  STORY  WHICH  BEGINS  WITH 
COMPLICATION 

The  making  of  a  plot  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than 
taking  the  experiences  of  a  life  and  arranging  them  in 
a  logical  order.  If  you  know  a  very  interesting  character 
who  has  had  some  varied  and  interesting  experiences  you 
can  make  a  very  fascinating  narrative  by  arranging  his 
unrelated  experiences  into  some  sort  of  definite,  logical 
order. 

The  simplest  of  all  known  methods  of  doing  this  is  to 
find  a  problem  and  a  solution,  and  arrange  all  events  in 
such  a  way  as  to  lead  from  one  to  the  other. 

The  first  thing  necessary  in  the  opinion  of  most  teachers 
of  short-story  writing  is  a  problem  to  solve  or  an  obstacle 
to  overcome.  The  bigger  the  problem  or  the  obstacle, 
other  things  being  equal,  the  easier  it  is  to  make  an 
interesting  story.  While  the  experienced  writer  will 
find  it  possible  to  construct  a  story  out  of  a  very  slender 
plot,  the  beginner  will  find  it  advisable  to  do  his  practicing 
on  complications  that  obviously  are  complications.  While 
Maupassant  can  produce  a  masterpiece  of  fiction  using 
as  his  starting  point  a  piece  of  string,  you  will  find  it 
more  satisfactory  to  use  as  your  motivating  force  a 
mysterious  ring  or  a  woman's  glove — that  is,  if  it  is  the 
situation  you  are  after,  and  not  the  character. 

How  these  problems  or  obstacles  should  be  handled 
can  best  be  indicated  by  doing  a  little  plot  building  of 

62 


THE  STORY  WITH  COMPLICATION       63 

our  own.  Let  us  take  a  complication  where  the  problem 
is  obviously  a  big  one.  A  man  who  has  been  wrongly 
accused  of  a  crime  has  been  confined  in  a  dungeon  for 
ten  years.  Every  day  he  expects  to  hear  that  a  pardon 
has  been  granted  him;  but  the  days  continue  to  go  by 
and  no  pardon  comes.  Finally  he  determines  to  take  the 
matter  into  his  own  hands  and  escape.  How  will  he  do 
it?  Here  are  two  solutions  typical  of  a  student's  first 
attempts  at  plot  building: 

First  solution :  As  the  man  awakes  one  morning,  a 
bright  idea  strikes  him.  He  carefully  rips  open  the  mat- 
tress upon  which  he  has  been  sleeping  all  these  years, 
extracts  a  file  and  a  coil  of  wire  and — but  what  makes  you 
smile  at  that  ?  Let  us  try  another. 

Second  solution :  He  awakes  one  morning  at  the  sound 
of  the  jailor's  key  rattling  in  the  lock.  As  he  arises,  he 
is  confronted,  not  by  the  jailor,  but  by  the  officer  in 
charge  of  the  dungeon.  "Mr.  Brown,"  says  the  officer 
in  stentorian  tones,  "I  come  to  announce  to  you  that 
His  Majesty,  having  had  the  matter  of  your  commitment 
brought  to  his  attention  at  last,  and  having  satisfied  him- 
self that  there  was  an  error  in  the  record,  does  hereby 
grant  you  a  full  and  complete  pardon." 

But  clearly  there  is  something  wrong  with  that  ending. 
Now,  what  is  the  matter  with  these  two  solutions?  The 
one  is  absurd,  the  other  uninteresting.  Or,  using  more 
discriminating  terms,  the  trouble  with  the  first  solution 
is  that  it  is  not  plausible;  with  the  second  that  it  lacks 
suspense.  Or  to  state  it  in  still  other  words :  The  writing 
of  successful  stories  narrows  down  to  a  matter  of  stating 
a  problem,  then  solving  it  in  a  way  that  is  logical  but  not 
perfectly  obvious. 

Inasmuch  as  the  solution  should  meet  two  such  im- 


64  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

portant  requirements,  would  it  not  be  an  advantage  to 
find  a  solution  first,  and  then  find  a  problem  to  fit,  rather 
than  to  reverse  the  process  as  is  the  general  custom? 
Poe  insists  that  this  should  be  the  rule  saying  that  all 
good  stories  are  worked  out  backwards.  Miss  Ida  A.  R. 
Wylie,  who  in  1919  had  more  distinctive  short  stories 
to  her  credit  published  in  American  magazines  than  any 
other  English  writer,  told  the  writer  that  she  hardly  ever 
began  a  story  till  she  could  see  the  last  sentence.  Mr. 
Willard  E.  Hawkins,  a  professional  critic  and  teacher 
of  short  story  writers,  editor  of  the  Student  Writer,  is 
also  a  strong  advocate  of  "the  solution  first"  method. 

As  an  illustration  of  the  effective  plotting  he  cites  the 
following  example  from  The  American  Boy  magazine. 
A  boy,  taking  pictures  at  low  tide,  allows  his  foot  to 
become  caught  fast  in  a  rocky  crevice  which  holds  him 
helpless  in  a  cave  while  the  water  slowly  rises  over  his 
head.  How  can  he  save  himself  is  the  problem.  If  he 
should  work  his  foot  loose  the  solution  would  be  too 
obvious;  if  the  tide  should  fail  to  reach  its  usual  height 
the  situation  would  not  be  logical.  The  writer  in  handling 
this  situation  solved  it  by  having  the  lad  put  the  bulb 
of  the  camera  in  his  mouth,  while  he  held  the  open  end 
of  the  rubber  tube  above  the  surface  of  the  water.  Thus 
he  was  able  to  sustain  life  till  rescue  came.  There  is 
very  little  doubt  but  that  the  author  got  his  cue  for  this 
story  by  noting,  perhaps  by  accident,  the  peculiar  simi- 
larity between  a  camera  tube  and  a  diving  apparatus.  In 
other  words,  he  followed  Poe's  advice  and  worked  from 
the  climax  backward. 

Any  clever  student  can,  by  looking  through  the  Scien- 
tific American  or  Popular  Science  Monthly,  discover  any 
number  of  striking  solutions  for  possible  problems. 


THE  STORY  WITH  COMPLICATION       65 

"As  a  means  of  stimulating  'a  writer's  invention," 
writes  Mr.  Hawkins,  "the  advice  is  sometimes  given: 
'Let  your  characters  fall  into  difficulties,  then  set  your 
wits  to  extricate  them.'  This  method  sometimes  works 
very  well ;  but  more  often  the  result  is  commonplace. 
Many  somehow  ineffective  stories  that  have  come  to  my 
desk  were  obviously  developed  by  this  method.  The 
author  has  put  characters  into  a  situation  which  at  once 
captures  the  reader's  interest;  but  the  climax,  or  solution, 
is  a  bare  working  out  of  details  which  reveal  only  mod- 
erate powers  of  invention.  It  is  usually  forced,  obvious, 
and  mediocre. 

"The  relative  importance  of  the  two  elements  of  plot 
would  be  better  indicated  if  we  phrased  our  definition : 
Plot  is  the  solution  of  a  problem.  For  the  solution  is 
the  all-important  thing.  When  an  editor  returns  your 
story  with  the  comment :  'A  well  written  tale,  but  it  lacks 
a  novel  twist,'  he  means  that  you  have  solved  the  problem 
in  a  familiar  way.  The  reader  knows  the  answer  before 
it  is  given.  The  best  possible  plot  material  is  a  new  de- 
vice for  solving  a  problem.  Have  your  climax^the  solu- 
tion— to  start  with,  then  devise  a  problem  to  fit  it. 

"In  testing  a  plot  idea,  consider  chiefly  the  possibilities 
for  a  striking  climax.  Almost  every  germinal  idea  may 
be  used  either  for  the  opening  situation — the  problem — 
or  for  the  solution.  By  all  means,  however,  let  it  serve 
as  your  climax." 

It  will  profit  the  beginner  to  heed  this  advice. 


The  ideal  way  of  constructing  a  complication  story' 
is  to  have  in  mind  from  the  beginning  the  kind  of  solu- 
tion you  intend  to  use,  but  all  the  while  you  are  writing 
the  story  to  be  on  the  lookout  for  a  still  more  startling 
or  unexpected  ending.  Unexpected  forces  may  enterl 
into  your  stories  to  bring  about  a  surprise  even  to  the 
writer.  Such  upsets  are  frequent  even  with  great  writers, 
and  the  usual  cause  is  the  unexpected  unfolding  of  some  \ 


66  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

character  in  the  story,  as  illustrated  in  "The  Spurious 
One"  on  page  109. 

Here  is  an  example:  You  are  writing  a  story  of  a 
delicate  young  college  boy  who  has  been  sent  by  his  par- 
ents to  spend  a  year  on  a  western  ranch.  He  finds  him- 
self universally  looked  down  upon  as  a  weakling  by  the 
cowboys,  who  make  him  the  butt  of  all  their  practical 
jokes.  One  day  he  discovers  that  every  year  this  ranch 
matches  its  best  runner  against  the  champion  of  another 
ranch.  This  discovery  suggests  an  idea  to  him,  and  he 
determines  to  turn  the  tables  on  the  others  and  become 
the  "cock  of  the  walk."  He  allows  them  to  see  a  medal 
his  roommate  had  won  in  a  hundred  yard  dash — one 
of  his  numerous  victories  in  big  eastern  meets.  They 
are  deceived  into  thinking  that  the  medal  was  won  by 
himself.  He  allows  himself  to  become  their  champion. 
His  purpose  is  to  get  even  with  them  by  enjoying  their 
homage  until  nearly  time  for  the  race  to  come  off,  and 
then,  on  some  faked  up  telegraphic  message  to  be  sent 
by  his  roommate,  to  leave  them  suddenly  before  his  deceit 
becomes  known. 

Let  us  assume  that  you  have  worked  out  a  clever 
solution  before  you  begin,  say  something  like  this :  The 
young  chap  is  gradually  to  become  softened  by  the  kindly 
treatment  he  receives  at  the  hands  of  the  cowboys  who 
do  his  chores  for  him  and  save  him  from  every  incon- 
venience, and  he  finally  decides  to  telegraph  for  his  room- 
mate to  come  out  and  run  the  race  for  him.  He  can 
easily  withdraw  on  some  trumped  up  excuse  of  a  sprained 
ankle,  or  attack  of  appendicitis. 

As  the  story  proceeds,  however,  the  young  college  boy 
shows  signs  of  developing  into  a  "real  person."  Like 


THE  STORY  WITH  COMPLICATION       67 

the  "Minor  Character"  he  begins  xto  put  ginger  and  spice 
into  the  story.  The  writer  becomes  interested  in  him. 
The  boy's  strength  improves  under  the  training.  And 
here  as  you  write  your  story  a  new  solution  occurs  to 
you.  Just  as  the  boy  is  trying  to  think  of  some  clever 
way  to  make  a  pretense  at  spraining  an  ankle,  the  famous 
runner,  his  former  roommate,  arrives  suddenly,  himself 
on  crutches.  Without  any  ruse  at  all,  the  wrong  fellow 
has  had  a  real  accident. 

It  is  now  too  late  to  find  a  plausible  excuse  for  running 
away.  If  he  races  and  makes  a  miserable  showing,  he 
hardly  knows  what  he  may  have  to  expect  from  the  cow- 
boys who  have  bet  heavily  on  him.  They  are  all  quick 
on  the  trigger.  A  critical  moment  of  decision  arrives. 
He  finally  decides  to  risk  all  on  the  race. 

The  ill-fated  day  arrives.  The  tenderfoot  finds  himself 
at  last  lined  up  beside  his  opponent.  His  roommate  ori 
crutches  gives  him  some  final  advice: 

"When  you  crouch  in  your  holes,  take  a  deep  breath. 
Pump  it  out  with  the  crack  of  the  gun,  and  then  grab 
another  lung  full,  and  hold  it  to  the  tape.  Run  all  the 
way  on  one  breath  if  you  can.  Don't  look  to  right  or 
left  but  keep  your  eyes  on  me.  I'll  be  at  the  finish  to 
catch  you.  Remember,  old  boy,  you  are  doing  this  for 
old  Yale.  Keep  your  head  well  down  and  chin  thrust 
out,  and  don't  look  back!" 

Then  let  him  win. 

Thus  you  have  turned  your  fake  hero  into  a  real  hero — 
a  greater  accomplishment  than  either  of  the  other  solu- 
tions, provided  that  you  can  make  it  appear  logical.  At 
any  rate,  no  one  can  criticize  this  plot  for  being  "too 
obvious." 


68  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

EXERCISES 

I.       STUDIES   IN   PROBLEMS  AND   SOLUTIONS 
A.      FIVE  PROBLEMS.      FIND   SOLUTIONS   TO   FIT. 

1.  A  woman  has  just  returned  from  a  two  weeks' 
house  party  when  her  telephone  bell  rings.     She  lifts 
the  receiver  to  hear  a  voice  which  she  recognizes  as  her 
sister's   asking,   "Are  you   back   safely?     How   do  you 
feel?" 

"Terribly,"  she  replies,  "I  never  spent  two  such  tire- 
some weeks  in  my  life." 

"Is  that  so?"  comes  the  voice,  which  she  now  recog- 
nizes with  horror  to  be  that  of  her  recent  hostess,  "I  am 
very  sorry."  And  she  hears  the  receiver  hung  up  at  the 
other  end. 

How  can  you  get  this  woman  out  of  her  predicament  ? 

(The  Black  Cat  once  offered  a  prize  for  the  answer 
to  this  problem.) 

2.  A  young  law  student  arranges  to  have  his  fiancee, 
a  college  girl,  spend  a  couple  of  weeks  at  his  own  home 
so  that  she  may  get  acquainted  with  his  parents,  whom 
she   has   never   seen.     The   mother   who   is   not   strong 
enough  to  entertain  a  guest  as  she  would  like  to,  wires 
at  once  to  her  brother,  who  lives  in  the  same  city  where 
her  son  is  attending  law  school,  asking  him  to  send  down 
at  once  an  experienced  Irish  cook.     Word  is  sent  as  to 
the  exact  trains  each  will  arrive  on,  but  the  cook  takes 
the  train  ahead  of  time,  and  the  girl  misses  hers.    When 
they  arrive,  each  is  taken  for  the  other. 

3.  A  young  man  who  has  been  attending  a  ball  with 
his  sister  tarries  a  few  minutes  at  the  doorway  talking 
to  his  chum.     When  he   reaches  the  curbing  only  one 
cab  is  standing  there.     He  gives  the  driver  the  address, 
and  leaps  in.    At  the  farther  end  of  the  cab  sits  a  girl. 
Both  are  wrapped  up  in  their  own  thoughts  until,  at  a 


THE  STORY  WITH  COMPLICATION       69 

crossroad,  he  leans  forward  and  lights  a  match  to  see 
the  time.  The  girl  moves  slightly,  and  utters  a  scream, 
as  the  match  goes  out. 

He  gives  an  ejaculation  and  lights  another  match 

"Who  are  you?"  she  cries. 

"My^God!"  he  exclaims,  "I  thought  you  were  my 
sister." 

What  is  the  outcome? 

4.  A  telegraph  operator  at  a  little  station  falls  asleep 
at   his   post.      He    awakes   to    hear   the    wires    clicking 
urgently,  "Stop  the  westbound  express — the  president's 
special  has  left  here  going  east."     He  hurries  to  the 
door  just  in  time  to  see  the  westbound  express  leaping 
out  into  the   darkness   toward  the  terrible   catastrophe 
that  awaits  it  unless  it  can  be  stopped.     He  returns  to 
his  office  stunned  and  stupefied.    He  looks  about  him,  and 
suddenly  an  idea  strikes  him.    What  is  it? 

5.  Four  miners  are  working  in  a  shaft  when  a  pile 
of  slate  falls  and  shuts  off  their  escape.    Find  a  solution. 

B.      FIVE  SOLUTIONS.      FIND  PROBLEMS  TO  FIT. 

1.  A  very  commonplace  man  finds  himself  suddenly 
placed  in  a  position  of  terrible  danger  and  great  respon- 
sibility, and  instead  of  feeling  fear,  he  feels  a  great  joy, 
the  joy  of  his  life,  in  both  the  danger  and  the  responsi- 
bility, and  by  his  zest  and  fearlessness  brings  triumph 
out  of  almost  certain  defeat. 

Find  a  problem  or  opening  situation  which  would  make 
an  ordinary  man  welcome  such  an  opportunity  in  just 
such  a  way. 

2.  A  plain  and  simple  girl,  seemingly  without  much 
charm,  surprises  everyone  by  marrying  a  brilliant  man 
who  was  commonly  thought  to  be  the  property  of  the 
belle  of  the  town.    How  did  she  do  it? 

3.  A  vaudeville  contortionist  has  the  gift  of  throwing 
every  joint  of  his  body  out  of  place  at  his  own  will  so 


70  -     THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

cleverly  as  to  defy  all  bone-setters.  He  also  has  the  gift 
of  throwing  his  joints  all  back  again,  one  at  a  time. 
Find  an  obstacle  or  problem  where  such  an  accomplish- 
ment would  offer  a  solution. 

4.  A  common  back-store  loafer,  who  has  done  nothing 
but  talk  all  his  life,  bears  a  striking  resemblance  to  the 
governor  of  the  state. 

Find  a  problem,  to  solve  which  this  coincidence  might 
be  useful. 

5.  A  very  miserly  farmer  is  suspended  by  a  rope  and 
bucket  in  a  well  while  his  meek  little  wife  refuses  to 
draw  him  up  until  he  promises  to  get  her  the  dress  she 
has  long  since  needed. 

How  did  she  get  him  there  ? 

II.       EXERCISES    IN    THE   THIRTY-SIX    ORIGINAL 
PLOT    SITUATIONS 

Read  over  carefully  the  thirty-six  original  plot  situa- 
tions on  pages  234-246,  and  find  how  many  of  these 
come  within  the  range  of  your  own  personal  experience. 
Select  five  of  these  and  restate  them  in  terms  of  some 
definite  problem  and  some  definite  solution. 

III.       THE  PLOT-BUILDING  GAME 
A.      BASED  ON  GOZZl's  ORIGINAL  PLOTS.*       (See   Part   III.) 

1.  From  a  hat  draw  one  of  the  thirty-six  original  plots. 

Express  this  in  terms  of  a  concrete  problem  and 
a  definite  solution. 

2.  From  another  hat  draw  one  of  the  three  characters 

discussed  in  Chapter  VII.  Show  briefly  how  such 
a  character  confronted  with  such  a  situation  would 
carry  it  through. 

3.  What  would  be  the  outcome?    If  possible  suggest  a 

"surprise"  ending. 

*  For  other  exercise?  based  on  the  Thirty-six  Original  Plot  Situations, 
see  page  249. 


THE  STORY  WITH  COMPLICATION        71 

B.      BASED  ON   SUCCESSFUL   STORIES  OF 'GREAT   WRITERS. 

1.  Read  to  the  class  the  first  three-fourths  of  an  O. 
Henry  story  and  let  the  class  write  the  conclusion  ac- 
cording to  their  own  ideas  of  how  it  should  turn  out.    At 
the  next  meeting  of  the  class  the  rest  of  the  story  may  be 
read  and  the  best  solutions  of  the  students  read  and  dis- 
cussed. 

2.  Read  "The  Lady  or  the  Tiger"  and  have  the  class 
write  a  conclusion. 

IV.    STEPS  IN  WRITING  AN  ORIGINAL  STORY  FROM  COMPLICATION. 

A.  Read  the  "Cop  and  the  Anthem"  and  the  creative 
criticism  that  accompanies  it. 

B.  Select  a  plot  including  the  problem  and  the  solu- 
tion.   Jot  down  one  or  two  little  incidents  or  hints  which 
would  be  useful  or  necessary  for  preparing  the  reader 
for  the  outcome.     Insert  one  or  two  suggestions  for  in- 
creasing   the    interest    of   the    reader    by    arousing    his 
curiosity  and  holding  him  in  suspense. 

C.  Write  the  story,  giving  chief  attention  to  the  points 
of  emphasis — the  beginning  and  the  ending.     Make  the 
beginning   "pregnant   with   action,"   and  the   conclusion 
snappy  and  climactic. 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  STORY  FROM  SETTING 

Two  types  of  stories  take  their  genesis  from  setting: 
the  local  color  story,  and  the  atmosphere  story.  These 
two  types  are  frequently  combined  in  one,  but  not  neces- 
sarily. 

Local  color,  as  the  term  implies,  makes  its  appeal 
largely  to  the  eye  of  the  reader.  Atmosphere  on  the 
other  hand  makes  its  appeal  almost  entirely  to  the  emo- 
tions. One  is  objective,  the  other  subjective.  One  must 
be  true  to  fact,  the  other  true  to  d  given  mood  either  of 
the  author,  or  of  his  creature,  the  leading  character. 
Local  color  attempts  to  harmonize  the  details  of  setting 
and  character  with  the  actual  conditions  of  a  given  time 
and  place ;  atmosphere  attempts  to  harmonize  setting  and 
character  with  the  feelings  of  a  character  in  a  certain 
time  and  place.  Thus  it  will  be  seen  that  the  one  is 
usually  perceived  by  the  intellect,  the  other  by  the  emo- 
ions.  The  two  usually  work  hand  in  hand,  as  local 
color,  as  seen  through  the  eyes  of  a  character,  is  the  chief 
element  in  awakening  the  emotional  response  in  the  heart 
of  the  reader. 

To  develop  the  art  of  using  local  color  you  must  prac- 
tice describing  scenes  that  are  familiar  to  you.  While 
Mrs.  Gerould,  who  has  never  seen  Africa,  has  succeeded 
in  giving  a  marvelously  vivid  illusion  of  Africa,  and 
Miss  I.  R.  A.  Wiley,  who  has  never  seen  Russia,  has 

72 


THE  STORY  FROM  SETTING  73 

achieved  a  similar  success  in  treating  the  local  color  of 
Russia,  nevertheless  I  have  yet  to  find  in  my  experience 
as  a  teacher  of  composition,  a  single  student  who  could 
describe  convincingly  a  background  which  he  himself  had 
not  seen.  An  amateur  may  wander  afar  for  characters 
and  plots,  finding  success  in  the  unfamiliar  and  the  gro- 
tesque, but  in  use  of  setting  he  is  almost  entirely  de- 
pendent upon  that  which  is  familiar  to  him.  In  addition, 
one  who  desires  to  be  successful  in  writing  atmosphere 
stories  must  feel  deeply  and  sympathize  deeply.  All 
great  atmospherists  were  of  this  type, — Poe,  Hawthorne, 
Conrad,  Hardy,  and  Stevenson. 

Local  color,  no  matter  with  how  heavy  a  brush  it  is 
put  on,  is  nearly  always  a  mere  means  to  some  larger  end, 
either  of  character,  plot  or  theme.  Atmosphere,  on  the 
other  hand,  while .  usually  holding  a  subordinate  position 
may  at  times  rise  to  the  point  where  it  dominates  the 
whole  story.  In  some  instances,  especially  frequent  in 
Poe,, the  characters  are  relegated  to  the  function  of  mere 
puppets,  while  the  atmosphere  monopolizes  the  role  of 
chief  character.  "In  Stevenson,"  writes  Pitkin,  "Nature 
is  often  the  leading  lady ;  in  Poe,  Conrad,  and  Hardy,  and 
most  atmospherists,  it  is  the  villain;  and  in  Hawthorne 
it  is  sometimes  the  hero's  silhouette." 

Such  personification  of  atmosphere  is  seen  at  its  best 
in  the  opening  paragraph  of  "The  Fall  of  the  House  of 
Usher,"  probably  the  greatest  atmosphere  story  ever 
written. 

"During  the  whole  of  a  dull,  dark,  and  soundless  day 
in  the  autumn  of  the  year,  when  the  clouds  hung  op- 
pressively low  in  the  heavens,  I  had  been  passing  alone, 
on  horseback,  through  a  singularly  dreary  tract  of  coun- 
try; and  at  length  found  myself,  as  the  shades  of  the 


74  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

evening  drew  on,  within  view  of  the  melancholy  House 
of  Usher.  I  know  not  how  it  was, — but,  with  the  first 
glimpse  of  the  building,  a  sense  of  insufferable  gloom 
pervaded  my  spirit.  I  say  insufferable;  for  the  feeling 
was  unrelieved  by  any  of  that  half -pleasurable,  because 
poetic,  sentiment  with  which  the  mind  usually  receives 
even  the  sternest  natural  images  of  the  desolate  or  ter- 
rible. I  looked  upon  the  scene  before  me — upon  the 
mere  house,  and  the  simple  landscape  features  of  the 
domain,  upon  the  bleak  walls,  upon  the  vacant  eye-like 
windows,  upon  a  few  rank  sedges,  and  upon  a  few  white 
trunks  of  decayed  trees — with  an  utter  depression  of 
soul  which  I  can  compare  to  no  earthly  sensation  more 
properly  than  to  the  after-dream  of  the  reveler  upon 
opium:  the  bitter  lapse  into  every  day  life,  the  hideous 
dropping  off  of  the  veil.  There  was  an  iciness,  a  sink- 
ing, a  sickening  of  the  heart,  an  unredeemed  dreariness 
of  thought  which  no  goading  of  the  imagination  could 
torture  into  aught  of  the  sublime.  What  was  it — I  paused 
to  think — what  was  it  that  so  unnerved  me  in  the  con- 
templation of  the  House  of  Usher?  It  was  a  mystery 
all  insoluble;  nor  could  I  grapple  with  the  shadowy 
fancies  that  crowded  upon  me  as  I  pondered.  I  was 
forced  to  fall  back  upon  the  unsatisfactory  conclusion, 
that  while,  beyond  doubt,  there  are  combinations  of  very 
simple  natural  objects  which  have  the  power  of  thus 
affecting  us,  still  the  analysis  of  this  power  lies  among 
considerations  beyond  our  depth.  It  was  possible,  I  re- 
flected, that  a  mere  different  arrangement  of  the  par- 
ticulars of  the  scene,  of  the  details  of  the  picture,  would 
be  sufficient  to  modify,  or  perhaps  to  annihilate,  its 
capacity  for  sorrowful  impressions;  and  acting  upon  this 
idea,  I  reined  my  horse  to  the  precipitous  brink  of  a 
black  and  lurid  tarn  that  lay  in  unruffled  luster  by  the 
dwelling,  and  gazed  down — but  with  a  shudder  even 
more  thrilling  than  before — upon  the  remodeled  and  in- 
verted images  of  the  gray  sedge,  and  the  ghastly  tree- 
stems,  and  the  vacant  and  eye-like  windows." 


THE  STORY  FROM  SETTING  75 

EXERCISES' 

I.       STUDIES    IN    LOCAL    COLOR 

Let  your  mind  run  back  over  the  scenes  of  your  child- 
hood and  early  youth  and  jot  down  a  list  suitable  for 
use  in  a  local  color  story.  Then  describe  two  of  these. 
Follow  directions  given  for  the  studies  in  visualization 
in  the  first  part  of  this  book.  Employ  the  methods  you 
learned  there  in  regard  to  emphasis  on  the  individualizing 
detail  and  the  use  of  the  four  senses  other  than  sight. 

The  following  lists  are  chiefly  for  suggestion.  Make 
a  list  of  your  own. 

A.  SCENES  THAT  A   COUNTRY  BOY  MIGHT  RECALL. 

1.  The  cows  standing  knee-deep  in  the  creek. 

2.  The  muddy  calf-yard  after  a  shower. 

3.  The    old    pump    surrounded    by    thirsty    geese    and 

chickens. 

4.  The  cows  in  the  stanchions  at  milking  time. 

5.  The  odor  of  the  hay  field  at  the  close  of  harvest. 

6.  The  old  horse  in  the  stall  swishing  flies  with  his  tail. 

7.  The  landscape  in  winter  described  so  as  to  make  the 

reader  shiver  with  cold. 

B.  SCENES     THAT     MIGHT     COME     BACK     VIVIDLY     TO     THE     BOY 

REARED    IN    A    SMALL   TOWN. 

1.  The  station  platform  filled  with  onlookers  when  the 

fast  mail  comes  puffing  in. 

2.  The  corner  drug  store  where  the  high  school  boys 

gather  to  talk  over  the  latest  game. 

3.  The  creek  by  the  edge  of  the  town. 

4.  The  restaurant  where  everything  is  served  in  slap- 

dash manner. 

5.  The  village  commons. 

6.  A  church  supper. 

7.  The  village  square. 


76  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

C.      SCENES  THAT  A  BOY  REARED  IN  A  BIG  CITY  MIGHT  RECALL. 

1.  The  rattle  of  big  trucks  over  the  cobblestones. 

2.  The  boulevard  where  the  autos  forever  speed  by. 

3.  The  sounds  of  a  great  railroad  union  station  at  night 

when  the  yards  are  jammed  with  outgoing  and  in- 
coming trains. 

4.  The  sounds  and  sights  of  a  factory  running  at  top 

speed. 

5.  The  "great  white  way." 

6.  The  city  as  seen  in  the  distance  as  one  approaches  it 

on  the  train. 

7.  A  great  department  store. 


II.      STUDIES    IN    ATMOSPHERE 
A.      DESCRIPTIONS    OF    NATURE    TO    HARMONIZE    WITH    A    MOOD. 

"One  thing  in  life  calls  for  another;  there  is  a  fitness 
in  events  and  places.  One  place  suggests  work,  another 
idleness,  a  third  early  rising  and  long  rambles  in  the 
dew.  The  effect  of  night,  of  any  flowing  water,  of 
lighted  cities,  of  the  peep  of  day,  of  ships,  of  the  open 
ocean,  calls  up  in  the  mind  an  army  of  anonymous  de- 
sires and  pleasures.  Something,  we  feel,  should  happen ; 
we  know  not  what,  yet  we  proceed  in  quest  of  it.  And 
many  of  the  happiest  hours  of  life  fleet  by  us  in  this 
vain  attendance  on  the  genius  of  the  place  and  moment. 
It  is  thus  that  tracts  of  young  fir,  and  low  rocks,  that 
reach  into  deep  soundings,  particularly  torture  and  de- 
light me.  Something  must  have  happened  in  such  places, 
and  perhaps  ages  back,  to  members  of  my  race ;  and  when 
I  was  a  child  I  tried  in  vain  to  invent  appropriate  games 
for  them,  as  I  still  try,  just  as  vainly,  to  fit  them  with  the 
proper  story.  Some  places  speak  distinctly.  Certain 
dank  gardens  cry  aloud  for  a  murder ;  certain  old  houses 
demand  to  be  haunted;  certain  coasts  are  set  apart  for 
shipwreck." — Stevenson,  "Gossip  on  Romance" 


THE  STORY  FROM  SETTING  77 

In  writing  the  following  exercises,  select  only  such 
details  as  will  harmonize  with  the  pervading  spirit  of 
the  scene  and  reject  all  others  that  are  "dissonant  in 
mood."  Preferably  make  your  description  from  the  view 
point  of  an  actor  or  a  participant,  as  atmosphere  can 
be  presented  best  through  the  medium  of  the  emotions 
of  one  speaking  in  the  first  person.  Have  the  character 
through  whose  viewpoint  you  write  dominated  by  the 
setting.  Note  that  the  list  below  has  been  drawn  with 
few  modifications  from  Stevenson's  suggestions  above. 

1.  Describe  a  city  street  in  such  a  way  as  to  convey  an 

impression  of  bustle  and  confusion  and  "busyness." 
(Work.) 

2.  Describe  the  coming  of  a  peaceful  summer  night  in     / 

the  country  in  such  a  way  as  to  fill  the  reader  with 
feelings  of  peace  and  tranquillity.  (Idleness.) 

3.  Describe  a  bit  of  street  so  as  to  convey  as  strong  an 

impression  as  possible  of  deep  darkness.  (Effect 
of  night.) 

4.  Describe   a   river   in  autumn  in  such  a  way   as  to 

"awaken  an  army  of  anonymous  desires  and  pleas- 
ures." (Flowers  and  stream.) 

5.  Describe  a  valley  as  it  would  appear  just  before  sun- 

rise if  viewed  from  a  hill  so  as  to  impress  the 
reader  with  the  sweetness  and  freshness  of  the 
scene.  (The  peep  of  day.) 

6.  Describe  the  coming  of  a  clear  summer  night  in  the 

sea  making  much  use  of  color  words.  (The  green 
ocean.) 

7.  Describe    a    "dank    garden"    that    cries    aloud    for 

murder. 

8.  Describe  a  certain  old  house  at  twilight  that  "de- 

mands to  be  haunted." 

9.  Describe  a  coast  that  is  "set  apart  for  shipwreck." 


;8  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

B.  Read  a  narrative  that  is  distinguished  for  its  com- 
pactness and  brevity,  such  as  a  parable  of  Jesus  or  a 
fable  by  ^Esop,  and  write  a  description  rich  in  atmosphere, 
of  some  scene  mentioned  in  the  narrative. 


III.      THE   PLOT-BUILDING    GAME 

A.  When  the  instructor  returns  one  of  your  studies  in 
atmosphere  or  local  color  describe    (in  the  class  hour) 
a  character  that  could  adequately  "interpret"  such  a  setting 
either  by  reason  of  "harmonizing  with  the  pervading  spirit 
of  the  scene"  or  because  of  dramatic  contrast  with  it. 

B.  From  a  hat  draw  a  number  corresponding  to  one  of 
the  settings  below.    Then  from  another  hat  draw  a  num- 
ber corresponding  to  one  of  the  three  characters  in  Chap- 
ter VII.     State  in  a  paragraph  how  the  setting  would 
dominate  or  shape  the  character. 

1.  A  western  farm  in  harvest  time. 

2.  A  beautiful  lake — every  scene  to  occur  when  the 

moon  is  high. 

3.  A  little  college  of  many  traditions  and  associations 

but  small  endowment  and  old  buildings. 

4.  A  little  village  of  New  England  type  in  the  Middle 

West. 

5.  A  little  village  in  Massachusetts  where  the  belief 

holds  sway  that  civilization  ends  at  the  foot  of 
the  Alleghenies. 

6.  A    camp    among    the    lumber    jacks    of    northern 

Minnesota. 

7.  With  a  gang  of  Italians  laying  new  steel  rails  on 

the  railroad. 

8.  Among  the  four  hundred  of  New  York. 

9.  The  slums  of  the  East  Side  tenements. 
10.     Along  the  wharves  of  a  large  city. 


THE  STORY  FROM  SETTING  79 

11.  In  the  trenches  in  Flanders. 

12.  A  Mississippi  River  metropolis,  noted  for  being  ua 

wide  open  town." 

13.  A  large  university  in  a  large  city. 

14.  A  department  store. 

15.  A  desert  island. 

16.  A  shoe-shining  shop. 

17.  A  Mexican  mezza. 

1 8.  A  jungle  in  India. 

19.  Among  the  mountains. 

20.  A  lonely  wood,  at  the  time  of  the  year  when  winds 

howl  through  the  branches. 

21.  A  cozy  little  cottage. 

22.  A  large  city  hospital. 

IV.      STEPS    IN    WRITING    AN    ORIGINAL    STORY    OF 
ATMOSPHERE    OR    LOCAL    COLOR 

A.  Read  "Greater  Love  Hath  No  Man"  and  the  con- 
structive criticism  accompanying  it. 

B.  Select  a  setting  and  write  a  few  tentative  descrip- 
tions of  it.     The  best  way  to  write  an  atmosphere  story 
or  story  of  local  color  is  to  begin  weeks  ahead,  writing 
down  little  paragraph   descriptions   or,   better   still,   sen- 
tence  descriptions   that   flash   the   exact   impression   you 
wish  to  make  upon  the  reader.    No  type  of  story  requires 
such  painstaking  care  in  selecting  the  right  word  and  the 
suggestive  phrase,  such  condensing  and  economy  of  lan- 
guage.    For    nothing    bores    one    more    quickly    than    a 
mediocre,  conventionally  phrased  atmosphere  story — and 
a  good  one  always  ranks  as  one  of  the  gems  of  literature. 

C.  Write  your  story  after  first  putting  yourself  into 
the  mood  you  wish  to  convey  to  your  readers. 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  STORY  THAT  GROWS  FROM  A  THEME 

When  Jack  London  remarked  that  the  two  essentials 
of  a  successful  writer  were  first  the  ability  to  work  hard, 
and  second,  the  possession  of  a  "philosophy  of  life,"  he 
was  not  hitting  very  wide  of  the  mark.  —While  the  first 
is  very  necessary  for  success  in  any  line  of  writing  the 
second  is  absolutely  indispensable  for  the  writer  who 
wishes  to  do  creditable  work  with  the  story  of  idea.  It 
does  not  matter  for  literary  purposes  whether  his  phi- 
losophy agrees  with  the  generally  accepted  creeds  and 
cults.  But  it  is  essential  that  the  writer  of  the  idea-story 
should  believe  in  something,  and  the  more  vigorously  he 
jlieves  in  it  the  better.  ^ 

story  that  emphasizes  idea  is  either  the  hardest 
story  to  write  or  the  easiest.  If  it  is  merely  a  story  with 
a  "moral,"  it  is  comparatively  easy  of  composition.  A 
piece  of  didactic  writing  in  narrative  form  is  merely  a 
string  of  incidents  strung  together  in  such  a  way  as  to 
make  the  moral  idea  clear.  But  such  a  story  sacrifices 
literary  qualities  in  order  to  make  the  moral  obvious.  If, 
however,  you  aim  at  presenting  a  truth  through  artistic 
effect,  you  are  undertaking  a  far  different  thing. 

In  the  strongest  stories  of  idea,  there  is  usually  a  de- 
cisive moment  where  the  character  has  to  decide  between 
one  of  two  issues.  An  entirely  different  set  of  conse- 
quences will  follow  each  act.  This  is  the  crux  of  the 
story,  and  upon  the  way  it  is  handled  the  strength  of  the 

80 


STORY  THAT  GROWS  FROM  A  THEME      Bi 

story  depends.  Sometimes  the  writer  chooses  to  make 
the  teaching  as  clear-cut  as  in  the  purely  didactic  narra- 
tive or  in  the  story  with  a  moral.  At  other  times  he 
solves  the  problem  so  impartially  that  the  reader  can 
only  get  by  implication  the  writer's  own  true  feelings 
in  the  matter.  Sometimes,  as  in  "The  Lady  or  the  Tiger," 
he  does  not  solve  it  at  all.  Of  the  three  methods,  the 
second  is  the  most  artistic  and  in  most  cases  the  one  to 
select.  In  other  words,  the  method  to  be  chosen  in  writ- 
ing the  story  of  idea  should  be  one  whereby  the  effect 
upon  the  reader  is  made  not  through  the  reason  and  in- 
tellect, but  through  the  imagination  and  emotions. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  every  story  embodies  a  theme,  no 
matter  whether  we  call  it  a  story  from  setting  or  a  story 
from  complication  or  a  story  from  character.  For  no 
story  can  be  written  that  is  not  more  or  less  based  upon 
some  reality  of  life,  upon  some  truth  of  human  existence. 
But  for  that  matter,  all  stories  make  use  of  setting, 
character  and  complication  as  well.  For  our  purposes 
we  shall  classify  as  stories  "from  idea  only  those  stories 
whose  purpose  is  to  emphasise  the  theme  more  than  to 
emphasize  the  plot  or  the  character,  v — . __ 


EXERCISES 

I.      STUDIES    IN    EXPOSITORY    BEGINNINGS 

Kipling  in  his  earlier  writing  adopted  a  method  of 
introducing  his  stories  with  an  introductory  essay  of  one 
or  two  paragraphs.  As  he  grew  in  artistry  and  power  he 
gradually  discarded  this  method,  but  the  vogue  that  he 
started  continued.  O.  Henry  was  the  most  successful 
imitator  of  Kipling  in  the  use  of  the  "philosophical 
overture."  Through  these  two  popular  writers  this  form 


82  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

received  great  currency  in  this  country,  and  today  a  great 
many  of  the  best  story-writers  in  current  magazines  em- 
ploy it.  But  it  is  not  the  best  way  to  write  a  thematic 
story.  Because  of  its  seeming  popularity  and  because  it 
does  have  some  value  in  helping  the  beginner  to  fix  his 
attention  at  once  on  the  central  theme  the  writer  wishes 
to  fix  in  the  reader's  mind,  it  deserves  careful  considera- 
tion before  we  leave  it.  Like  the  back-hand  stroke  in 
tennis,  no  harm  will  be  done  and  a  great  deal  of  good 
may  be  accomplished,  by  trying  it  out  occasionally  in 
practice,  although  care  should  be  taken  to  avoid  it  as 
much  as  possible  in  the  real  game. 

A.  Referring  to  the  examples  given  under  B,  below,  and 
using  them  as  models,  write  a  philosophical  overture  suitable 
for  the  beginning  of  a  story  on  one  of  the  following  themes. 
Make  it  terse,  individual  and  interesting.    Take  care  to  pre- 
vent it  from  becoming  dull  and  preachy. 

1.  God  made  the  world  for  lovers;  all  others  are  in- 

truders. 

2.  Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way. 

3.  A  little  child  shall  lead  them. 

4.  Mercy  is  like  the  gentle  dew  from  heaven. 

5.  Order  is  heaven's  first  law. 

6.  Opportunity  knocks  but  once. 

7.  It  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost  than  never  to  have 

loved  at  all. 

If  more  topics  are  desired  see  Book  of  Proverbs,  Poor  Richard's  Almanac 
and  sEsop's  Fables. 

B.  Read  the  story  from  which  one  of  the  following  phil- 
osophical overtures  has  been  taken  and  then  write  a  one- 
sentence  beginning  to  substitute  for  the  expository  beginning. 

"To  rear  a  boy  under  what  parents  call  the  'sheltered  life 
system'  is,  if  the  boy  must  go  into  the  world  and  fend  for 
himself,  not  wise.  Unless  he  be  one  in  a  thousand  he  has 


STORY  THAT  GROWS  FROM  A  THEME       83 

certainly  to  pass  through  many  urfnecessary  troubles;  and 
may,  possibly,  come  to  extreme  grief  simply  from  ignorance 
of  the  proper  proportions  of  things. 

"Let  a  puppy  eat  the  soap  in  the  bathroom  or  chew  a 
newly  blacked  boot.  He  chews  and  chuckles  until,  by  and 
by,  he  finds  out  that  blacking  and  Old  Brown  Windsor  made 
him  very  sick;  so  he  argues  that  soap  and  boots  are  not 
wholesome.  Any  old  dog  about  the  house  will  soon  show  him 
the  unwisdom  of  biting  big  dogs'  ears.  Being  young,  he  re- 
members and  goes  abroad,  at  six  months,  a  well-mannered 
little  beast  with  a  chastened  appetite.  If  he  had  been  kept 
away  from  boots,  and  soap,  and  big  dogs  till  he  came  to  the 
trinity  full-grown  and  with  developed  teeth,  consider  how 
fearfully  sick  and  thrashed  he  would  be !  Apply  that  notion 
to  the  'sheltered  life/  and  see  how  it  works.  It  does  not 
sound  pretty,  but  it  is  the  better  of  two  evils. 

"There  was  a  Boy  once  who  had  been  brought  up 
under  the  'sheltered  life'  theory;  and  the  theory  killed  him 
dead.  .  .  ."  — From  Kipling's  "Thrown  Away." 

"East  is  East,  and  West  is  San  Francisco,  according  to 
Calif ornians.  Californians  are  a  race  of  people;  they  are 
not  merely  inhabitants  of  a  State.  They  are  the  Southerners 
of  the  West.  Now,  Chicagoans  are  no  less  loyal  to  their  city ; 
but  when  you  ask  them  why,  they  stammer  and  speak  of  lake 
fish  and  the  new  Odd  Fellows  Building.  But  Californians  go 
into  detail. 

"Of  course,  they  have  in  the  climate  an  argument  that  is 
good  for  half  an  hour  while  you  are  thinking  of  your  coal 
bills  and  heavy  underwear.  But  as  soon  as  they  come  to 
mistake  your  silence  for  conviction,  madness  comes  upon 
them,  and  they  picture  the  city  of  the  Golden  Gate  as  the 
Bagdad  of  the  New  World.  So  far,  as  a  matter  of  opinion, 
no  refutation  is  necessary.  But,  dear  cousins  all  (from 
Adam  and  Eve  descended),  it  is  a  rash  one  who  will  lay 
his  finger  on  the  map  and  say:  Tn  this  town  there  can  be 


84  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

no  romance — what  could  happen  here  ?'  Yes,  it  is  a  bold  and 
rash  deed  to  challenge  in  one  sentence  history,  romance,  and. 
Rand  McNally." 

— From   O.  Henry's  "A  Municipal  Report'' 


II.       STUDIES    IN    STORIES   OF   THEME 

A.  Read  "The  Fat  of  the  Land,"  by  Anzia  Yezierska, 
which  Mr.  O'Brien  considers  the  best  short  story  in  his  col- 
lection of  the  "Best  Short  Stories  of  1919."    Do, you  think  it 
deserves   such  high  rank?     Jot  down  one  or  two  thematic 
situations  which  could  be  developed  by  a  plan  similar  to  that 
of  this  story,  i.  e.,  dividing  a  life  into  two  parts  giving  two 
contrasting  incidents  separated  by  a  long  lapse  of  time,  in  the 
life  of  a  leading  character. 

B.  "The    Dark    Hour,"    by    Wilbur    Daniel    Steele,    is 
ranked  by  O'Brien  in  his  collection  of  "Best  Short  Stories 
of  1918"  as  the  best  short  story  that  has  come  out  of  the 
war.     Now  that  the  war  is  over  plan  a  situation  whereby 
the  moral  of  the  war — as  finished — as  you  see  it,  could  be 
best  presented. 

If  you  are  interested  you  might  read  Alice  Brown's  "Flying 
Teuton,"  published  in  Harper's  for  August,  1917,  which 
O'Brien  considered  the  best  war  story  of  that  year,  and  also 
"England  to  America,"  by  Margaret  Prescott  Montague, 
which  was  ranked  by  a  group  of  critics  as  the  best  short 
story  of  1919.  This  story  may  be  found  in  The  Atlantic 
Monthly  and  reprinted  in  Current  Opinion  for  March,  1920. 

C.  Read    "The    Citizen"    by    James    Francis    Dwyer    in 
O'Brien's  collection  of  "Best  Short  Stories  for  1915"  and  then 
plan  a  story  in  whicn  some  one  listens  to  a   speaker  and 
while  listening  lives  over  some  dramatic  incident  in  his  life. 
Use  the  first  and  last  paragraphs  of  the  speech  as  a  "frame" 
for  the  story.    Speeches  that  would  be  easily  adapted  to  such 
an  end  would  be : 


STORY  THAT  GkOWS  FROM  A  THEME       85 

Abraham  Lincoln's  Second  Inaugural  Address. 
Woodrow  Wilson's  Address :  "Make  the  World  Safe  for 

Democracy." 

Henry  Grady's  "The  New  South." 

In  planning  such  a  story  care  must  be  taken  to  select  the 
right  person  through  whose  point  of  view  the  story  should 
be  written. 

D.  Read  Daudet's  "The  Last  Class"  and  then  plan  a  story 
sequel  to  it,  forty  years  later,  using  one  of  following  theme 
situations : 

1.  The  little  boy's  return — now  a  general  or  a  teacher 

— to  the  little  schoolhouse  to  re-open  it  with  the 
"first  class." 

2.  The  last  class  of  a  kind  old  German  school  teacher, 

a  man  untouched  by  militarism,  who  preaches  a 
valedictory  address  on  the  mistakes  and  moral 
breakdown  of  his  own  nation  which  led  to  the 
return  of  Alsace-Lorraine  to  the  French. 

III.      A   STORY-BUILDING   GAME 

I.  Draw  from  a  hat  numbers  corresponding  to  one  of  the 
themes  listed  below.  Then  select  a  character,  and  plan  a 
story  in  class  that  would  illustrate  this  truth. 

A.      THEMES  OF  LOVE. 

I.     Only  one  love  is  true  and. great;  we  are  gods  but 

once. 

.  2.     Love  is  an  art,  not  a  science.     We  can  be  taught  a 
science  but  we  learn  an  art  by  trying. 

3.  When  love  dies,  we  die;  from  then  on  until  we  are 

buried  we  only  exist. 

4.  Though  love  is  essential  to  life,  there  is  a  hidden 

instinct  in  the  heart  of  every  man  and  woman  to 
destroy  it. 

5.  Sin  is  not  purged  by  prayer,  fasting  and  self-mutila- 

tion, but  by  love. 


86  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

6.  The  only  dangerous  heretics  are  those  who  doubt 

love. 

7.  As  soon  as  a  woman  thinks  herself  loved,  she  makes 

herself  lovable. 

8.  It  is  singular  that  a  woman  is  charitable  toward  the 

man  who  would  ruin  her,  and  so  exacting  toward 
the  man  who  worships  her. 

9.  No  man  finds  himself  until  he  loves  a  woman. 

10.     The  soul  of  man  is  journeying  from  chaos  to  law; 
and  the  road  is  love. 

B.      HUMOROUS  THEMES. 

The  following  statements  might  be  elaborated  into  humorous 
overtures : 

1.  Some  men  actually  know  a  few  of  the  things  they 

believe. 

2.  Love  is  a  great  help  to  the  girl  who  wants  to  make 

herself  miserable. 

3.  It  takes  any  man  longer  to  make  a  garden  than  it 

takes  an  old  hen  to  unmake  it. 

4.  A  man  is  never  the  same  after  his  first  baby,  after 

his  first  automobile,  and  after  his  name  has  been 
mentioned  favorably  in  the  newspaper. 

5.  Common  sense  is  very  uncommon. 

— Horace  Greeley. 

6.  If  you  do  not  wish  a  man  to  do  a  thing,  you  had 

better  get  him  to  talk  about  it;  for  the  more  men 
talk,  the  more  likely  they  are  to  do  nothing. 

— Carlyle. 

7.  Be  good  and  you'll  be  lonesome. 

— Mark  Twain. 

8.  Curiosity  is  one  of  the  forms  of  feminine  bravery. 

— Hugo. 

9.  There  are  few  wild  beasts  more  to  be  dreaded  than 

a   communicative  person  having  nothing  to  com- 
municate. 


STORY  THAT  GROWS  FROM  A  THEME      87 

10.     A  very  uncivil  person  may  be  able  to  pass  a  Civil 
Service  Examination. 

C.      GENERAL  THEMES. 

1.  No  sensible  person  ever  made  an  apology. 

— Emerson. 

2.  If  you  always  live  with  those  who  are  lame,  you 

yourself  will  learn  to  limp. 

— From  the  Latin. 

3.  He  who  sings  frightens  away  his  ills. 

— Cervantes. 

4.  In  great  straits;  and  when  hope  is  small,  the  boldest 

counsels  are  the  safest.  — Livy. 

5.  Man  is  born  barbarous — he  is   ransomed   from  the 

conditions  of  beasts  only  by  being  cultivated. 

— Lamartine. 

For  other   suggestions   see   Book   of  Proverbs,   Poor   Richard's   Almanac, 
and  jEsop's  Fables. 


'-TV.       STEPS  IN   WRITING  A  STORY  FROM   THEME 

A.  Read  "The  Dark  Hour"  and  the  criticism  that  accom- 
panies it. 

B.  Then  select  a  theme  that  you  would  like  to  develop 
into  a  story  and  outline  the  general  plan. 

C.  Read  some  expository  material — essays  and  sermons, 
etc. — that  bears  upon  your  theme.     In  other  words,  get  the 
idea  well  developed  in  your  own  mind  before  you  begin. 

D.  Then  write  your  story,  avoiding  as  far  as  possible  all 
suggestion  of  the  didactic.    Try  to  present  your  truth  through 
artistic  effect  rather  than  pointed  moral. 


CHAPTER  XI 
SOME  QUESTIONS  ANSWERED 

If  you  have  faithfully  worked  out  the  exercises  in 
plot  building  in  the  last  four  chapters  you  will  have  found 
that  the  writing  of  a  short  story  is  not  such  an  impossible 
task  as  you  may  have  first  thought.  You  are  now  ready 
to  make  a  choice  of  complications,  characters  and  setting 
and  write  a  short  story  of  your  own.  As  you  proceed 
in  the  writing,  however,  you  are  likely  to  be  brought  up 
against  some  questions  that  have  not  been  anticipated 
in  the  last  four  chapters,  and  it  is  the  purpose  of  this 
chapter  to  answer  the  most  important  of  these  questions 
in  the  order  in  which  they  will  probably  occur  to  you. 

PROBLEM    I.       WHERE    SHALL    I    BEGIN? 

This  is  very  easily  answered.  Start  as  near  to  the 
climax  as  you  can.  If  you  are  describing  your  hero's 
climbing  of  Pike's  Peak,  start  when  he  is  halfway  up. 
If  your  tale  is  concerned  with  an  avalanche,  begin  when 
the  avalanche  is  halfway  down.  That  is  to  say,  plunge 
in  medias  res. 

As  one  important  function  of  the  beginning  of  a  story 
is  to  set  the  tone  of  the  story,  a  beginner  could  well 
profit  by  the  method  of  Poe  as  described  by  Clayton 
/Hamilton:  "Poe  began  a  story  of  setting  with  a  descrip- 
tion ;  a  story  of  character  with  a  remark  made  by  or  about 
the  leading  character;  and  a  story  of  action  with  a  sen- 
tence pregnant  with  potential  incident." 

88 


SOME  QUESTIONS  ANSWERED         89 

Another  very  important  function  of  the  beginning  of 
a  story  is  to  catch  the  interest  of  the  reader.  There  is 
probably  nothing  more  interesting  to  the  average  reader 
than  action.  Therefore,  if  you  are  not  sure  which  of  the 
four  types  your  story  will  belong  to,  you  will  be  safe 
by  commencing  with  an  incident.  If  this  incident  may 
be  made  to  reveal,  at  the  same  time,  the  leading  character, 
the  setting  and  the  central  theme,  you  will  accomplish 
one  thing — the  economizing  of  the  reader's  attention. 


PROBLEM    II.      WHAT   SHALL   BE    MY   POINT   OF  VIEW? 

This  matter  of  viewpoint  is  the  least  understood  of 
all  the  technical  features  of  short  story  writing.  The 
best  way  to  make  the  matter  clear  to  you  will  be  to  show 
you  the  same  situation  treated  from  various  viewpoints, 
and  indicate  the  advantage  and  limitations  of  each  and  let 
you  take  your  choice. 

I.     The  External  Viewpoint. 

The  viewpoint  of  a  spectator.  The  action  may  be 
presented  as  it  would  appear  to  an  audience  in  a  theatre. 

"Nina!"  A  shrill  voice  was  calling,  "This  is  the  third 
time  I've  called  you  to  wash  them  dishes!"  The  back 
door  slammed. 

"Them  plagued  dishes!"  exclaimed  Tomboy  Turner, 
as  with  a  deep  sigh  she  dropped  to  the  ground  from  the 
limb  of  the  apple  tree  where  she  had  been  sitting.  "Gee, 
how  lazy  mother  is  getting,"  she  said  as  she  pulled  up 
her  stocking  and  started  slowly,  limping  around  the 
chicken  coop.  From  time  to  time  she  stopped  to  mop 
her  face  with  an  old  bandanna  handkerchief.  Her  arms 
hung  lifelessly  at  her  side.  Once  she  stopped  and  ex- 
amined with  care  a  skinned  place  on  her  knee.  When 


90  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

she  reached  the  house  she  pressed  her  hands  against  her 
temples  and  leaned  against  the  door  jamb. 

"Did  you  put  the  water  on,  ma?" 

"No,"  snapped  the  mother.  "Now  get  busy.  This 
isn't  an  ordinary  day.  Something  different  maybe  is 
going  to  happen." 

Nina  looked  at  her  mother,  her  eyes  now  open  wide. 
Her  hair  was  tousled  and  she  made  a  pretty  picture  as 
she  stood  in  the  doorway.  She  asked  no  further  ques- 
tions, and,  filling  a  pan  set  it  on  the  back  of  the  stove ; 
then,  with  a  quick  glance  at  her  mother  whose  back  was 
turned,  she  slipped  through  the  door  and  hastened  to  her 
room  where  a  moment  later  she  could  have  been  found 
with  her  face  buried  in  a  much  thumbed  book,  bearing 
the  title,  "Three  Eagle  Feathers,  or  The  Adventures  of 
Cowboy  Dick." 

The  disadvantage  of  this  method  is  that  the  reader 
can  not  enter  into  the  story  as  directly  as  when  the  per- 
sonal viewpoint  is  used.  We  can  say  that  Nina  looked 
at  her  mother  with  wide  open  eyes,  but  we  can  only  let 
the  reader  draw  inferences  as  to  what  she  was  thinking. 
We  can  say  that  the  mother  turned  with  a  frown,  but  we 
can  not  state  with  authority  that  Nina  saw  it. 

It  depends  entirely  upon  visualization,  and  for  that  rea- 
son is  excellent  practice,  but  allows  practically  no  opportu- 
nity for  showing  the  emotions  or  feelings  of  the  char- 
acters, excepting  by  inference,  and  therefore  is  practically 
useless  for  giving  atmosphere.  For  these  reasons  I  should 
not  advise  students  to  use  it  often. 

2.     The  viewpoint  of  an  actor  in  the  story. 

"Nina !"  It  was  my  mother's  voice.  "This  is  the  third 
time  I've  called  you  to  wash  them  dishes!"  The  back 
door  slammed  suggestively. 

"Them  plagued  dishes!"  I  thought,  as  I  slid  down  out 


SOME  QUESTIONS  ANSWERED          91 

of  the  apple  trees.  How  lazy  mother  was  getting!  I 
pulled  up  my  stocking  and  started  slowly  around  the 
chicken  coop.  Gee,  how  that  sore  knee  did  hurt !  It  was 
getting  so  hot  and  my  head  ached  and  my  arms  felt  as 
if  they  were  going  to  fall  out.  That  skinned  place  on 
my  knee  must  be  pretty  bad  the  way  it  burned.  When 
I  reached  the  house  I  had  to  stop  and  rest  at  the  door- 
way. My,  how  my  head  did  ache! 

"Did  you  put  the  water  on,  ma?"  I  asked. 

"No,"  she  snapped,  "Now  get  busy;  this  isn't  an  ordi- 
nary day.  Something  different  maybe  is  going  to 
happen." 

"I  wonder  if  Uncle  Bill  is  going  to  come,  that  old 
grouchy  guy,"  I  thought,  "I  suppose  that  is  what  make ; 
ma  so  cranky."  Well  anyway,  I  wasn't  going  to  hurry 
on  his  account.  So  I  filled  a  pan  and  set  it  on  the  stove 
far  from  the  spot  which  I  knew  was  hottest,  and  when 
ma  wasn't  looking  I  slipped  out  and  up  to  my  room  to 
read  another  chapter  in  that  most  interesting  tale,  "Three 
Eagle  Feathers  or  The  Adventures  of  Cowboy  Dick." 

This  method  has  obvious  advantages  in  stories  of 
atmosphere  where  the  setting  and  actions  must  har- 
monize with  the  emotions  of  some  character.  It  has 
distinct  disadvantages  if  the  one  telling  the  story  is  going 
to  be  the  hero  or  heroine,  for  braggadocio  is  distasteful 
to  any  reader.  It  should  be  recommended  for  use  in  all 
stories  of  atmosphere  or  mystery. 

j.     Over-the-Shoulder  Viewpoint. 

For  stories  other  than  atmosphere  or  mystery,  the 
third  person  viewpoint  is  preferable.  In  this  viewpoint 
the  writer  looks  over  the  shoulder  of  one  of  the  char- 
acters. Such  a  method  may  be  obtained  by  taking  the 
first  person  viewpoint  and  changing  nothing  but  the  pro- 
nouns. 


92  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

"Nina!"  It  was  her  mother's  voice.  "Nina!"  The 
back  door  slammed  suggestively. 

Tomboy  Turner  sighed  profoundly  and  dropped  to  the 
ground.  How  lazy  her  mother  was  getting!  She  pulled 
up  her  stocking  and  started  slowly  around  the  chicken 
coop  limping  painfully  on  a  sore  toe.  It  was  getting  hot 
and  her  head  ached  and  her  arms  felt  as  if  they  were 
going  to  fall  out.  That  skinned  place  on  her  knee  must 
be  pretty  bad,  from  the  way  it  burned.  When  she  reached 
the  house  she  pressed  her  hands  to  her  temples,  and 
leaned  wearily  against  the  door  jamb. 

"Did  you  put  the  water  on,  ma?" 

"No,"  snapped  the  other,  "Now  get  busy,  this  isn't 
an  ordinary  day.  Something  different  maybe  is  going 
to  happen." 

"I  wonder  if  that  old  grouch,  Uncle  Bill,  is  going  to 
come,"  thought  Nina,  "I  suppose  that  is  what  makes  ma 
so  cranky."  Well  anyway,  she  wasn't  going  to  hurry 
on  his  account.  So  she  filled  a  pan  and  set  it  on  the 
stove,  far  from  the  spot  which  she  knew  was  hottest, 
and  when  her  mother  was  not  looking,  she  slipped  out 
and  up  to  her  room  to  read  another  chapter  of  that  most 
interesting  tale,  "Three  Eagle  Feathers  or  The  Adven- 
tures of  Cowboy  Dick." 

In  this  kind  of  story  the  writer  lives  the  life  of  the 
viewpoint  character.  It  is  the  simplest  form  and  the 
best  for  the  writer  who  is  as  yet  uncertain  of  his  tech- 
nique. Care  should  be  taken  not  to  witness  anything 
that  the  viewpoint  character  does  not  see;  nor  to  enter 
into  the  thoughts  of  any  other  character.  If  the  writer 
neglects  this  warning,  discrepancies  are  bound  to  occur. 

4.     The  Shadow  Viewpoint. 

This  viewpoint,  which  is  midway  between  the  over- 
the-shoulder  viewpoint  and  the  external  viewpoint, 
combining  the  best  of  each,  is  a  discovery,  I  believe,  of 


SOME  QUESTIONS  ANSWERED          93 

Willard  E.  Hawkins,  editor  of  the  Student  Writer.  It 
is  excellent  for  a  writer  who  wants  greater  leeway  than 
the  personal  viewpoint  allows,  as  it  gives  him  the  privi- 
lege of  telling  not  only  what  the  characters  saw  and 
thought,  but  also  how  they  looked. 

"Nina !"  It  was  her  mother's  voice.  "This  is  the  third 
time  I've  called  you  to  wash  them  dishes!"  The  back 
door  slammed  suggestively. 

Tomboy  Turner  sighed  profoundly  and  dropped  to  the 
ground.  How  lazy  her  mother  was  getting !  She  pulled 
up  her  stockings  and  started  slowly  around  the  chicken 
coop,  limping  on  a  sore  toe.  It  was  getting  hot  and  her 
head  ached  and  her  arms  felt  as  if  they  were  going  to 
fall  out.  That  skinned  place  on  her  knee  must  be  pretty 
bad  the  way  it  burned.  When  she  reached  the  house  she 
leaned  wearily  against  the  door  jamb.  As  she  stood 
there  silhouetted  against  the  dark  green  of  the  orchard, 
her  hair  rumpled,  with  two  or  three  stray  leaves  still 
loosely  clinging  in  it,  she  made  a  pretty  picture. 

"Did  you  put  the  water  on,  ma?" 

"No,"  snapped  the  other.  "Now  get  busy,  this  isn't 
an  ordinary  day.  Something  different  maybe  is  going 
to  happen." 

"I  wonder  if  Uncle  Bill  is  going  to  come,  that  old 
grouch,"  she  thought,  but  nothing  in  the  austere  manner 
of  her  mother  revealed  what  she  knew.  Great  would 
have  been  Nina's  consternation  had  she  known  the  real 
reason  for  all  this  haste,  but  only  the  crumpled  telegram 
concealed  in  her  mother's  apron  pocket  would  have  re- 
vealed the  news  to  her,  and  this  her  mother  had  taken 
pains  to  keep  from  her  sight,  etc. 

Mr.  Hawkins  describes  this  as  the  viewpoint  of  the 
character's  subjective  or  astral  self.  He  says  further: 

"For  fictional  purposes  we  assume  that  this  shadowy 
double-self  exists  and  that  the  story  is  told  from  its 


94  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

viewpoint.  Consider  its  properties  and  limitations.  As 
an  extension  of  the  man  himself  it  reaches  beyond  him, 
yet  is  a  part  of  him.  It  thinks  in  unison  with  the  man 
to  which  it  belongs,  yet  can  look  at  him  as  an  outsider, 
can  see  events  that  he  may  be  too  preoccupied  to  notice. 
It  can  observe  threatening  dangers  which  he  may  not 
realize,  but  can  not  warn  him — unless  he  is  in  a  very 
passive  state.  It  has  no  separate  existence  and  can  not 
ordinarily  witness  events  that  are  entirely  out  of  his 
range;  still,  it  has  a  definitely  wider  vision  than  he  pos- 
sesses. It  can  not  enter  into  the  thoughts  of  any  character 
other  than  the  man  it  overshadows. 

"This  may  sound  like  a  very  difficult  and  complex  view- 
point, yet  it  is  that  which  the  majority  of  writers  instinc- 
tively employ.  They  enter  into  close  accord  with  the 
viewpoint  character,  but  do  not  actually  confine  themselves 
to  his  or  her  limitations." 

Its  advantage  is  that  it  permits  the  writer  to  paint  a 
picture  that  is  rich  in  atmosphere  and  at  the  same  time, 
rich  in  details.  This  method  permits  us  to  tell  what  Nina 
thought,  how  she  looked  and  to  include  mention  of  some 
things  within  the  range  of  the  "shadow"  viewpoint  of 
which  she  had  no  knowledge  whatever.  It  combines  the 
virtue  of  the  objective  viewpoint  of  keeping  the  reader 
guessing,  and  gives  opportunity  of  the  personal  view- 
point for  purposes  of  atmosphere. 

It  must  not  be  confused  with  the  shifting  viewpoint, 
however,  as  the  writer  must  not  stray  further  away  from 
the  central  character  than  the  length  of  his  own  shadow, 
so  to  speak.  Otherwise  the  impression  of  unity  of  effect 
would  be  dissipated. 

5.     The  Shifing  Viewpoint. 

If  he  should  choose  to  use  this  viewpoint  the  writer 
would  be  permitted  to  describe  first  the  receiving  of 


SOME  QUESTIONS  ANSWERED         95 

the  telegram  by  Mrs.  Turner  in  'the  kitchen,  and  then 
shift  to  the  orchard  where  Nina  was  eating  green  apples 
and  shirking  her  morning  responsibility.  The  impracti- 
cability  of  such  a  viewpoint  for  the  short  story  is  so 
obvious  that  I  need  give  no  further  discussion  of  it  here. 
The  fact  that  it  is  frequently  used  by  successful  maga- 
zine writers  is  no  evidence  whatever  that  their  stories 
would  not  have  been  more  successful  without  it.  It 
does  give  evidence,  however,  that  viewpoint  like  all  the 
other  rules  of  short  story  writing  is  a  means  to  an 
end  and  is  not  the  most  important  thing  in  the  world 
in  itself. 

PROBLEM  III.       HOW  SHALL  I  MAKE  MY  STORY  MOVE? 

A  narrative  is  a  living  thing,  like  a  stream  of  water; 
it  flows  toward  a  single  definite  impression  that  is  to  be 
made  upon  the  reader.  In  some  stories  this  stream  should 
flow  slowly,  in  others  rapidly,  in  still  others,  and  these 
the  majority,  it  should  start  'slowly  and  increase  by  a 
gradually  accelerated  movement  until  at  the  climax  the 
movement  is  the  most  rapid  and  the  interest  the  highest. 

Slow  movement  is  used  most  frequently  in  stories  of 
character  or  atmosphere ;  rapid  action  is  used  in  compli- 
cation stories  and  sometimes  in  thematic  stories ;  while 
accelerated  action  is  found  in  all. 

Here  is  an  example  of  slow  action : 

"From  Bleymard  after  dinner,  although  it  was  already 
late,  I  set  out  to  scale  a  portion  of  the  Lozere.  An  ill- 
marked  stony  drove-road  guided  me  forward ;  and  I  met 
nearly  half-a-dozen  bullock-carts  descending  from  the 
woods,  each  laden  with  a  whole  pine-tree  for  the  winter's 
firing.  At  the  top  of  the  woods,  which  do  not  climb 
very  high  upon  this  cold  ridge,  I  struck  leftward  by  a 
path  among  the  pines,  until  I  hit  on  a  dell  of  green  turf, 


96  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

where  a  streamlet  made  a  little  spout  over  some  stones 
to  serve  me  for  a  water-tap.  'In  a  more  sacred  or  se- 
questered bower — nor  nymph  nor  faunus  haunted.'  The 
trees  were  not  old,  but  they  grew  thickly  round  the 
glade:  there  was  no  outlook,  except  north-eastward  upon 
distant  hill-tops,  or  straight  upward  to  the  sky;  and  the 
encampment  felt  secure  and  private  like  a  room.  By  the 
time  I  had  made  my  arrangements  and  fed  Modestine, 
the  day  was  already  beginning  to  decline.  I  buckled 
myself  to  the  knees  into  my  sack  and  made  a  hearty 
meal;  and  as  soon  as  the  sun  went  down,  I  pulled  my 
cap  over  my  eyes  and  fell  asleep.  .  .  . 

"As  I  thus  lay,  between  content  and  longing,  a  faint 
noise  stole  towards  me  through  the  pines.  I  thought, 
at  first,  it  was  the  crowing  of  cocks  or  the  barking  of 
dogs  at  some  very  distant  farm ;  but  steadily  and  gradu- 
ally it  took  articulate  shape  in  my  ears,  until  I  became 
aware  that  a  passenger  was  going  by  upon  the  highroad 
in  the  valley,  and  singing  loudly  as  he  went.  There  was 
more  of  good-will  than  grace  in  his  performance;  but 
he  trolled  with  ample  lungs;  and  the  sound  of  his  voice 
took  hold  upon  the  hillside  and  set  the  air  shaking  in 
the  leafy  glens.  I  have  heard  people  passing  by  night 
in  sleeping  cities;  some  of  them  sang;  one,  I  remember, 
played  loudly  on  the  bag-pipes.  I  have  heard  the  rattle 
of  a  cart  or  carriage  spring  up  suddenly  after  hours  of 
stillness,  and  pass,  for  some  minutes,  within  the  range 
of  my  hearing  as  I  lay  abed.  There  is  a  romance  about 
all  who  are  abroad  in  the  black  hours,  and  with  some- 
thing of  a  thrill  we  try  to  guess  their  business.  But  here 
the  romance  was  double :  first,  this  glad  passenger,  lit 
internally  with  wine,  who  sent  up  his  voice  in  music 
through  the  night ;  and  then  I,  on  the  other  hand,  buckled 
into  my  sack,  and  smoking  alone  in  the  pine-woods 
between  four  and  five  thousand  feet  towards  the  stars." — 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson's  "A  Night  Among  the  Pines." 

Note  the  tendency  to  loose  sentences  and  the  skillful 
use  of  adjectives. 


SOME  QUESTIONS  ANSWERED         97 
Here  is  an  example  of  swift  action: 

"The  merchants  closed  their  shops,  and  came  out  to 
swell  the  general  chorus  of  alarm  and  clamor.  Women 
rushed  to  the  churches,  and  crowded  the  chapels,  and 
knelt  and  prayed  on  the  flags  and  steps.  The  dull  sound 
of  the  cannon  went  on  rolling,  rolling.  Presently,  car- 
riages with  travelers  began  to  leave  the  town,  galloping 
away  by  the  Ghent  barrier.  The  prophecies  of  the  French 
partisans  began  to  pass  for  facts.  'He  has  cut  the  armies 
in  two/  it  was  said.  'He  is  marching  straight  on  Brus- 
sels. He  will  overpower  the  English,  and  be  here  to- 
night.'— Thackeray,  ''Vanity  Fair." 

Note   short   sentences,   concrete   nouns   and   verbs   of   / 
action. 

Here  is  an  example  of  mixed  action;  starting  with 
slow  movement,  the  movement  gradually  increasing  in 
speed  until  at  the  close  the  action  is  very  rapid: 

"The  Kettle,  growing  mellow  and  musical,  began  to 
have  irrepressible  gurglings  in  its  throat,  and  to  indulge 
in  short  vocal  snorts,  which  it  checked  in  the  bud,  as 
if  it  hadn't  quite  made  up  its  mind  yet  to  be  good  com- 
pany. Now  it  was,  that  after  two  or  three  such  vain 
attempts  to  stifle  its  convivial  sentiments,  it  threw  off  all 
moroseness,  all  reserve,  and  burst  into  a  stream  of  song 
so  cozy  and  hilarious,  as  never  maiidlin  nightingale  yet 
formed  the  least  idea  of. 

"And  here,  if  you  like,  the  Cricket  did  chime  in  with 
a  chirrup,  chirrup,  chirrup,  of  such  magnitude,  by  way 
of  chorus, — with  a  voice  so  astoundingly  disproportionate 
to  its  size  as  compared  with  the  Kettle  (Size!  you 
couldn't  see  it!) — that  if  it  had  then  and  there  burst 
itself  like  an  overcharged  gun,  if  it  had  fallen  a  victim 
on  the  spot,  and  chirruped  its  little  body  into  fifty  pieces, 
it  would  have  seemed  a  natural  and  inevitable  conse- 
quence, for  which  it  had  expressly  labored. 


98  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

"There  was  all  the  excitement  of  a  race  about  it. 
Chirp,  chirp,  chirp!  Cricket  a  mile  ahead.  Hum,  hum, 
hum — m — m  !  Kettle  making  play  in  the  distance,  like  a 
great  top.  Chirp,  chirp,  chirp!  Cricket  round  the  cor- 
ner. Hum,  hum,  hum — m — m !  Kettle  sticking  to  him  in 
his  own  way;  no  idea  of  giving  in.  Chirp,  chirp,  chirp! 
Cricket  fresher  than  ever.  Hum,  hum,  hum — m — m! 
Kettle  slow  and  steady.  Chirp,  chirp,  chirp !  Cricket 
going  in  to  finish  him.  Hum,  hum,  hum — m — m !  Kettle 
not  to  be  finished.  Until,  at  last,  they  got  so  mumbled 
together  in  the  hurry-skurry,  helter-skelter  of  the  match, 
that  whether  the  Kettle  chirped  and  the  Cricket  hummed, 
or  the  Cricket  chirped  and  the  Kettle  hummed,  or  they 
both  chirped  and  both  hummed,  it  would  have  taken  a 
clearer  head  than  yours  or  mine  to  decide  with  anything 
like  certainty."— Dickens'  "The  Chimes'' 

Slow  movement  should  be  used  in  writing  narratives 
on  such  topics  as  the  following : 

Sights  seen  on  a  street  car. 

A  walk  in  the  woods. 

The  loves  of  old  Aunt  Chloe. 

Rapid  movement  would  naturally  be  used  in  such 
themes  as  the  following: 

Chased  by  a  mad  dog. 

When  the  wolf  was  cornered. 

The  four-oared  boat  race. 

Accelerated  movement  would  be  used  in  such  themes 
as  the  following: 

Fishing  for  a  gigantic  trout. 

Playing  with  mother's  clothes  while  she  was  away. 

The  night  of  the  rescue. 

There  is  nothing  that  will  help  the  student  attain 
mastery  over  narrative  movement  more  than  a  well  de- 


SOME  QUESTIONS  ANSWERED          99 

veloped  sense  of  rhythm.  If  he 'is  so  fortunate  as  to 
possess  this  instinct  he  should  by  all  means  make  the 
most  of  it,  letting  his  ideas  come  as  it  were  in  'thought- 
waves,"  and  writing  as  though  he  were  composing  to 
music.  The  ebb  and  flow  of  these  thought  waves  may 
be  speeded  up  for  fast,  exciting,  tense  passages,  and 
slowed  down  for  calm  and  placid  passages. 

PROBLEM    IV.      HOW    CAN    I    CONNECT    THE    EPISODES? 

One  of  your  first  tasks  should  be  to  reduce  the  number 
of  episodes  to  as  few  in  number  as  possible.  Every  joint 
in  your  pipe  is  subject  to  leakage.  The  leaks  in  your 
story  will  be  found  at  the  points  of  juncture.  Three 
fresh  beginnings  strain  the  limit  of  any  story.  If  your 
story  is  naturally  episodic,  remedy  the  situation  by 
Dinding  together  the  earlier  episodes  into  one  continu- 
ous happening.  Then  treat  the  concluding  episodes  in 
a  similar  manner.  If  you  find  that  you  cannot  do  this 
I  should  advise  you  to  throw  aside  the  plot  as  one  im- 
possible to  use.  There  are,  however,  a  few  exceptions  > 
to  this  rule.  Stories  which  emphasize  character  sometimes 
require  more  episodes  and  longer  lapses  of  time  between  • 
them,  in  order  to  record  the  development  of  the  indi- 
viduals that  are  the  center  of  the  story.  Compare  in 
this  respect  the  number  of  episodes  and  the  big  lapses 
of  time  in  "The  Necklace,"  and  "The  Gay  Old  Dog," 
with  the  single  continuous  episodes  in  "The  Cop  and  the 
Anthem,"  and  the  "Last  Class."  Only  an  artist  of  as 
long  experience  as  Maupassant  or  Edna  Ferber  could 
have  riveted  together  so  many  "links  of  pipe"  without 
having  his  stories  fall  to  pieces,  figuratively  speaking,  in 
clouds  of  smoke. 


TOO  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 


ta 
£ 


If  you  find  it  absolutely  impossible  to  bridge  the  gap 
between  certain  parts  of  your  story,  don't  be  afraid  to  be 
honest  with  your  readers.  You  owe  it  in  common  hon- 

ty  to  reveal  the  sharpness  of  the  break,  if  necessary 
even  typographically.  A  row  of  asterisks  in  the  middle 

f  a  story  is  not  the  best  form  of  transition  by  any  means, 

ut  it  is  one  way,  and  often  by  no  means  the  worst  way. 

PROBLEM    V.       HOW    CAN    I    MAKE    MY    CLIMAX 
SEEM    PLAUSIBLE? 

In  a  story  this  simply  means  that  all  the  stage  prop- 
erties should  be  on  the  stage  before  the  performance  be- 
gins. A  splendid  example  of  this  forehandedness  is  seen  in 
Stevenson's  "Treasure  Island."  Here  we  are  told  how 
kind  the  first  mate  was,  and  as  an  example  of  his  gener- 
osity we  learn  of  his  having  brought  on  board  a  barrel 
of  apples.  At  the  time  we  think  of  this  as  a  device  for 
showing  the  character  of  the  mate,  but  some  time  later, 
when  the  barrel  is  all  but  empty,  and  the  little  boy  crawls 
into  it  to  eat  the  last  apple  and  take  a  nap  while  sheltered 
from  the  rays  of  the  sun,  we  see  suddenly  the  relation 
of  all  this  to  the  plot  of  the  story. 

But  if  forehandedness  is  necessary  in  preparing  stage 
properties,  even  more  is  it  needed  for  introducing  char- 
acter qualities.  If  your  hero  is  to  toss  the  villain  over 
the  quarterdeck  on  the  last  page,  you  should  give  us  an 
example  of  his  athletic  prowess  in  one  of  the  early  pages. 
Such  forehandedness  is  especially  necessary  where  you 
plan  to  have  things  happen  which  would  tax  your  reader's 
credulity.  For  instance,  if  a  loafer  is  going  to  rise  on  a 
sudden  occasion  and  deliver  an  eloquent  address  which 
leads  to  his  election  to  Congress  by  being  mistaken  for 


SOME  QUESTIONS  ANSWERED     V'fttt/. 

the  governor,  he  should  be  revealed  to  us,  earlier  in  the 
story,  picking  up  methods  of  skilled  orators  in  his  dis- 
cussions around  the  old  stove  in  the  village  store.  An 
excellent  example  of  this  preparation  is  found  in  the 
description  of  the  mother  on  the  first  page  of  "They 
Know  Not  What  They  Do,"  by  Wilbur  Daniel  Steele. 
But  this  point  leads  directly  to  the  next  problem  of  the 
short  story. 

PROBLEM   VI.      HOW    CAN    I   INCREASE  THE   SUSPENSE 
IN    MY   STORY? 

When  we  see  a  man  walking  slowly  toward  an  open 
well,  we  think  nothing  of  it,  but  when  we  discover  by 
the  second  glance  that  he  is  blind,  we  become  intensely 
interested  in  the  outcome.  When  we  discover  by  a  third 
glance  that  he  is  our  own  grandfather,  our  interest  is 
increased  to  the  breaking  point.  And  when  finally  some- 
thing occurs  to  hinder  our  stopping  him  from  advancing 
toward  what  seems  certain  death,  our  excitement  grows 
very  intense  indeed. 

This  situation  illustrates  the  three  laws  of  suspense. 
In  the  first  place  find  an  intensely  dramatic  situation 
where,  in  order  to  prevent  disaster,  everything  depends 
upon  a  certain  thing  happening  within  a  certain  limit  of 
Mime.  The  Zenda  and  Graustark  stories  stress  this 
method.  Excellent  examples  of  this  are  "The  Cop  and 
the  Anthem,"  and  "The  Lady  or  the  Tiger  ?" 

Second,  invest  your  characters  with  the  sympathetic 
interest  of  the  reader  by  whatever  means  at  your  dis- 
posal. If  you  can  make  us  feel  toward  him  as  we  would 
feel  toward  our  own  brother,  then  a  very  trivial  matter 
will  hold  us  in  suspense.  Arnold  Bennet,  Jane  Austen, 
William  Dean  Howells,  stress  this  method.  Examples 


KS2.  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

in  short  stories  are  "The  Gay  Old  Dog"  and  "The  Last 
Class." 

Third,  give  the  impression  of  a  considerable  length  of 
time  elapsing  between  the  discovery  by  the  reader  of  the 
character  in  his  precarious  position  and  the  solution. 
Such  an  impression  may  be  given  by  using  one  of  the 
following  devices: 

a.  The  writer  may  offer  scientific  explanations  of  the 

danger,  keeping  the  reader  on  tenter-hooks  await- 
ing the  outcome.  This  was  done  in  "The  Lady 
or  the  Tiger." 

b.  Another  method  is  to  delay  action  by  revealing  the 

thoughts  and  emotions  of  the  viewpoint  character. 
Nowhere  is  this  better  done  than  in  "The  Coward." 

c.  Another  way  is  to  shift  to  some  other  part  of  the 

story  and  leave  the  character  dangling  in  the  air 
until  we  come  back  to  him  later.  This  method, 
frequently  used  in  novels,  implies  the  shifting 
viewpoint  and  is  therefore  not  desirable  for  short 
stories. 

The  chief  thing  is  to  work  for  time  for  the  full  signifi- 
cance of  the  impending  disaster  to  sink  deeply  into  the 
reader's  mind.  The  writer  should  be  careful  not  to  pro- 
long this  retarding  of  action  to  the  point  where  it  may 
vitiate  the  effect  of  the  climax  that  is  coming. 


PROBLEM  VII.       HOW   CAN   I   GIVE  MY  STORY  AN 
EFFECTIVE    CLIMAX? 

From  the  conventional  plot  point  of  view  what  is  the 
secret  of  a  strong  climax?  If  I  should  put  the  answer 
into  one  word  I  should  say  Surprise.  This  surprise  must 
be,  of  course,  compounded  of  materials  that  have  already 


SOME  QUESTIONS  ANSWERED        103 

entered  into  the  story;  in  other  words  it  must  be,  as  I 
have  reiterated  elsewhere,  plausible  and  logical. 

What  are  some  of  the  ways  by  which  this  surprise  can 
be  achieved?  Perhaps  the  most  effective  methods  are 
the  following: 

1.  Have  the   character   do   exactly  what   we   should 
expect  but  in  a  delightfully  novel,  unusual  way,  just  as 
only  that  particular   character  would   do   it.     In   other 
words,  have  the  surprise  not  in  what  he  does,  but  in  the 
way  he  does  it.     Who  is  not  thrilled  by  the  climax  of 
'The  Last  Class?" 

2.  Have    the    character,    stirred    outside    himself    by 
some  unexpected  climactic  event,  do  exactly  the  opposite 
of  what  he  and  every  reader  thinks  he  would  do  in  such 
a  crisis.     See  O.  Henry's  "The  Proof  of  the  Pudding" 
for  a  unique  example  of  this. 

3.  Omit  some  little  step  in  the  story,  as,  for  instance, 
the  forbearance  of  Madame  Loisel  from  telling  Mathilde 
that  the  beads  which  she  was  selecting  with  such  childish 
pleasure  were  paste,  and  save  this  for  a  revelation  at 
the  close  of  the  story.     This,   of   course,   is  the   chief 
method  of  detective  and  mystery  stories. 

4.  Perhaps  the  most  effective  surprise  climax  for  a 
plot  story  is  achieved  by  introducing  a  sub-plot  which  is 
kept  hidden  throughout  most  of  the  story,  and  re-enters 
near  the  close,  long  enough  to  give  an  entirely  new  turn 
to  events.    In  "The  Gay  Old  Dog"  the  early  love  affair 
of  Jo  Hertz  and  Emily,  so  long  submerged  that  it  has 
been  forgotten  by  the  reader,  emerges  at  an  unexpected 
moment  in  such  a  way  as  to  give  a  strong  climax  to  the 
story. 


MISCELLANEOUS    STUDIES    IN    SHORT 
STORY  WRITING 

These  exercises  are  intended  for  oral  reports,  class  dis- 
cussions, or  impromptu  written  assignments  in  the  classroom. 
It  is  not  intended  that  they  should  encroach  on  time  required 
for  the  proper  preparation  of  other  assignments  in  this  book. 

I.       STUDIES    IN    THE    BEGINNING    OF    A    STORY 

1.  Select  almost  any  story  of  Hawthorne  and  write  an- 
other beginning  for  it.     Hawthorne's  beginnings  are  noto- 
riously weak.     In  fact,  in  structure  of  the  story  Hawthorne 
is  as  weak  as  Poe  is  strong;  his  style,  however,  is  superior 
to  that  of  any  living  writer  and  deserves  careful  attention. 

2.  Try   writing   four   original   beginnings,   employing   in 
turn  the  four  methods  described  on  page  88,  the  introductory 
incident,  the  leading  character,  the  theme  and  the  setting. 
If  you  prefer  you  may  write  four  different  beginnings  for 
the  same  story. 

3.  Try  writing  an  introductory  paragraph  which  will  in- 
troduce all  four  elements  of  the  story  simultaneously. 

II.       STUDIES    IN    THE   POINT   OF   VIEW 

1.  Cut    from  a   magazine   a   story   which   has   been  told 
in  the  first  person,  paste  or  string  the  story  together  so  that 
it  will  not  fall  apart,  and  then  change  all  the  first  person 
pronouns  to  third  person,  and  write  a  one-page  discussion  of 
the  advantage  of  the  one  form  over  the  other. 

2.  After  the  same  manner  alter  a  story  told  in  the  third 
person  to  the  first  person  form. 

3.  Plan  writing  a  story  from  the  over-the-shoulder  view- 
point of  one  character,  and  then  of  another. 

For  further  studies  in  viewpoint  see  IV  below. 

104 


STUDIES  IN  SHORT  STORY  WRITING     105 

III.       STUDIES    IN     NARRATIVE    MOVEMENT 

1.  Slow  Movement:   Write  an  account,  100  to  300  words 
in  length,  on  one  of  the  following  topics  or  on  one  of  your 
own  choosing: 

Hunting  with  a  camera. 

A  walking  trip. 

Uncle  Tom  takes  a  ride  in  the  street  car. 

Take  time  to  visualize  the  pictures  you  see,  as  you  write, 
and  strive  to  bring  in  much  specific  detail  that  will  add  to  the 
vividness  of  the  picture,  even  at  the  risk  of  slowing  up  the 
action.  While  striving  for  variety  in  sentence  structure — 
something,  by  the  way,  you  always  should  strive  for — lean 
somewhat  toward  the  long  sentences,  not  avoiding  the  loose 
construction  if  you  know  how  to  use  it.  Before  writing  this 
sketch  read  a  paragraph  from  Stevenson  to  catch  his  rhythm 
and  grace  of  movement. 

2.  Rapid   Movement:    Write   an   account   in    100  to   300 
words  on  one  of  the  following  topics,  or  on  one  of  your 
own  choosing: 

When  Dave  came  to  bat. 

The  fire  in  Garrow's  Hotel. 

Chased  by  a  mad  bull. 

When  old  Burdick  lost  his  temper. 

Use  shorter  sentences  than  in  slow  action.  Keep  your 
nouns  concrete  and  specific,  and  above  all  strive  to  find  "verbs 
of  action"  to  economize  the  reader's  attention  and  to  lend 
force  to  the  narrative.  For  instance  say  "women  rushed  to 
the  churches"  rather  than  "went  to  the  churches."  Before 
writing  this  you  will  find  it  helpful  to  read  a  page  from  an 
exciting  chapter  in  one  of  Victor  Hugo's  novels. 

3.  Accelerated  Movement:    Write  an  account   in   150  to 
400  words  on  one  of  the  following  topics  or  on  one  of  your 
own  choosing,  employing  the  style  you  used  in  Exercise   I 


106  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

above  for  the  first  part,  and  ending  with  the  style  you  used 
in  2: 

Before  and  after  n  o'clock  on  Armistice  Day. 
The  coming  of  the  hurricane  to  Carver  City. 
Gill  appears  for  the  mile  run. 

It  is  an  interesting  study  and  excellent  practice  to  attempt 
to  move  by  gradual  stages  from  slow  movement  to  rapid 
movement  when  the  incidents  in  the  narrative  allow  it.  This 
is  one  of  the  best  exercises  to  prepare  one  for  the  business 
of  story  writing. 


IV.      STUDIES    IN    SELECTION    AND   ARRANGEMENT 
OF   EPISODES 

1.  Read  "The  Shot/'  by  Pushkin.     This  is  told  in  three 
episodes  which  are  not  arranged  in  chronological  order.    Plan 
writing  this  in  chronological  order  and  from  the  impersonal 
over-the-shoulder  viewpoint  of  the  leading  character  instead 
of  from  the  first  person  viewpoint  of  a  minor  character.    In 
doing  this  use  "The  Necklace"  as  your  model. 

What  would  be  gained  and  what  would  be  lost  by  this 
alteration  ? 

2.  Using  the  order  of  incidents  and  viewpoint  of  "The 
Shot"  as  a  model,  make  the  following  alterations  in  "The 
Necklace" :    Have  an  intermediate  incident  come  first :  i.  e., 
Mathilde  scrubbing  floors  in  a  back  garret.     Have  story  told 
through  viewpoint  of  a  minor  character — a  new  character — 
who    occupies   the   same   tenement    and    whose   curiosity    is 
aroused  by  seeing  such  a  woman  doing  such  menial  work. 
Have  the  first  part  of  her  life  told  by  Mathilde  to  this  person 
as  the  second  episode  of  the  story,  and  then  have  the  latter  be 
present   in  some  way   at  the   denouement   and   relate  what 
she  saw. 

Discuss  the  advantages  and  disadvantages  of  such  a  change. 


STUDIES  IN  SHORT  STORY  WRITING     107 

V.       STUDIES    IN    PLAUSIBILITY 

1.  Cut  out  a  magazine  story  which  introduces  very  skill- 
fully the  necessary  materials  and  furnishes  the  motivation  for 
the   concluding   episodes.     Make    comments    in   the    margins 
directing  attention  to  the  best  examples  of  this  and  bring  to 
the  class. 

2.  After  a  similar  fashion  bring  a  story  to  class  which  is 
deplorably  weak  in  motivation  and  in  preparation   for  the 
final  solution. 

3.  Point  out  the  deplorably  illogical  places  in  "The  Spuri- 
ous One." 

VI.       STUDIES   IN    SUSPENSE 

A.  Indicate  in  which  of  the  following  situations  suspense 
must  be  created  by  intensifying  the  interest  in  the  characters, 
and  in  which  by  intensifying  the  interest  in  the  situation: 

1.  Johnny    spills    molasses    on   the    table-cloth    at    Mr. 

Gordon-Jones'  party. 

2.  Mrs.  Smith  buys  a  can-opener  from  the  agent  only 

to  find  she  has  been  duped. 

3.  Mr.   Brown   discovers   that   the   shares    in   Brown's 

Harvester  Company  have  dropped  three  points. 

4.  Mark  Dolan  slips  on  the  glacier  edge. 

5.  Robert  McCord  finds  after  starting  on  his  first  aero- 

plane flight  that  he  has  forgotten  the  way  to  alight. 

B.  Write  in  class  a  one-page  sketch  based  on  one  of  the 
following : 

1.  Dawson  was  to  be  hung  at  high  noon.     It  was  now 

five  minutes  of  the  hour,  and  still  no  reprieve  had 
come. 

2.  The  doctor  washed  his  hands  in  preparation  for  the 

operation. 

3.  "In  five  minutes  the  boss  wants  to  see  you,"  she  told 

me.     Seeing  that  all  in  the  room  were  looking  at 


io8  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

me,  I  bent  my  head  down  over  my  work.  But  for 
the  life  of  me  I  could  not  concentrate  my  thoughts 
upon  the  task  before  me. 

4.  I  knew  that  in  five  minutes  I  should  be  under  the 

enemies'  fire.  In  order  to  calm  my  beating  heart 
I  began  to  reason  very  scientifically  about  it.  In 
the  first  place  .  .  . 

5.  I  looked  ahead  one  hundred  yards  to  where  stood  the 

old  gnarled  tree  and  safety !  Then  I  glanced  back 
over  my  shoulder  to  where  the  wolf  pack  came 
charging  only  thirty  yards  away — with  death 
gleaming  from  their  yellow  eyes  and  blood-red  lips ! 
Cpuld  I  make  it? 


VII.      STUDIES   IN    CLIMAX 

1.  Read  "The  Lady  and  the  Tiger"  and  write  a  climax 
according  to  your  own  interpretation  of  the  lady's  motives. 
This  sometimes  makes  an  interesting  impromptu  class  assign- 
ment when  the  instructor  reads  the  story  aloud  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  hour. 

2.  Read  "Riding  the  Rim  Rock"  by  Dallas  Lore  Sharp  in 
Atlantic  Narratives,  and  recast  the  last  part  of  the  story  so 
as  to  have  a  climax  instead  of  a  philosophical  discussion. 

3.  Discuss  the  ending  of  "The  Gay  Old  Dog"  and  com- 
pare with  the  ending  of  "The  Necklace." 

4.  Conceive  a  situation  where  some  character  who  has 
been  abused,  scorned  and  looked  down  upon  throughout  the 
story  arises  in  justifiable  indignation  and  volcanoes  forth  his 
wrath  at  his  persecutors  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  him  the 
dominant  character  in  the  situation. 

5.  Conceive  of  a  situation  where  a  character  does  just  the 
opposite  of  what  we  might  have  expected  him  to  do. 


STUDIES  IN  SHORT  STORY  WRITING     109 


VIII.    DISCUSS  THE    MORAL"  IMPLIED  IN  THE 
FOLLOWING  STORY: 

THE  SPURIOUS  ONE  * 

BY  GERTRUDE  BROOKE   HAMILTON 

Putting  up  a  white  hand  to  brush  back  a  curl  that  the 
wind  had  blown  across  her  temple,  the  Heroine  sighed, 
"But  the  storm  will  come  and  all  our  beautiful  day  will 
be  spoiled." 

The  Hero's  clean-cut  face  glowed.    "Yes,  it  will  rain.'" 

"How  can  it,"  broke  in  the  Minor  Character,  "when 
there's  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky?"  Her  hair,  unlike  the 
Heroine's,  had  become  in  the  salt  air  perfectly  straight. 
The  Hero  seemed  to  note  the  contrast.  Again  he  glowed. 

"It  will  rain,"  cooed  the  Heroine. 

The  Minor  Character  shook  her  head.  "Where  are 
the  clouds?" 

The  Heroine  smiled.  Aside,  she  whispered  fiercely, 
"To  give  me  my  big  scene  it  must  rain." 

And  it  rained.  A  flooding  downpour  that  drove  the 
Heroine  and  the  Hero  and  the  Minor  Character  along 
the  beach,  and  sent  stinging  handfuls  of  sand  into  their 
faces.  Against  the  fury  of  the  winds,  the  Hero  walked 
in  silent  strength;  but  the  Heroine  faltered.  Her  hair, 
loosened  from  its  shining  coils,  fell  heavily  upon  her 
shoulders. 

"I  am  afraid,"  she  stammered,  "for  you!" 

"For  me!"  he  cried.     "Then  you — 

She  flung  out  warning  hands.  "Hush !  We  have  no 
right- 
He  straightened.  "Out  here,  let  us  face  ourselves, 
the  real  selves.  Let  us  be  true.  Conventionalities  that 
bind  and  fetter — 

"This  is.  all  very  fine,"  interrupted  the  Minor  Char- 
acter peevishly,  "but  I  am  getting  wet." 

*  Copyright,    1919,    by   the    Editor   Magazine    Company. 


no  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

"Be  still !"  hissed  the  Heroine.  "Do  you  want  to  spoil 
our  best  scene  ?"  And  then  to  him :  "No  !  no !  I  must 
not  listen!" 

The  Minor  Character  seated  herself  upon  a  rock  and 
began  kicking  it  with  her  unshapely  feet.  Her  hair  hung 
about  her  eyes  like  snakes,  her  face  was  pale  and  her 
nose  red.  She  was  a  sorry  spectacle — and  she  knew  it ! 

The  storm  was  now  magnificent;  across  the  western 
sky-line  faint  flickers  of  lightning  lived  and  died,  and 
the  thunder  rumbled  incessantly.  The  Heroine  was  very 
serious.  "Voices  of  the  storm,"  she  brooded.  "What 
are  they  saying  to  you — to  me — to  the  world?" 

"Love,"  he  analyzed.  "Look!" — a  flame  went  across 
the  heavens — "that  is  love  playing  upon  two  souls,  light- 
ing doubts  with  naked  truth.  Listen!" — the  thunder 
broke — "That  is  love  defying  the  world.  Voices  of  the 
storm!  Can't  you  hear  them?" 

She  breathed  unevenly.  A  blinding  rent,  a  crash  that 
shook  the  earth,  brought  them  to  their  feet.  "The  end !" 
she  wailed. 

"The  storm,"  contradicted  the  Minor  Character.  "I 
knew  what  would  come  of  this  idiotic  business.  Now, 
what  are  we  going  to  do?" 

The  Hero  stretched  his  arms.     "Die,  gloriously!" 

"Not  for  mine,"  retorted  the  Minor  Character.  "I  see 
a  boat  coming,  anyway." 

It  was  true.  Across  the  swirling  waters,  flashed  upon 
by  vivid  bolts,  rescue  was  nearing  them.  When  the 
craft  drew  up,  a  man  wrapped  in  a  flowing  cape  came 
rapidly  forward. 

"There  is  yet  time,"  he  muttered. 

The  Hero  interposed  with,  "Sir,  your  name." 

"What  matters  that?" 

"Your  name,  or  profession,  before  we  move  an  inch." 

"If  you  must  have  it,"  the  stranger  said  sulkily,  "I 
am  the  Villain.  This  lady's  hair" — he  waved  a  hand 
towards  the  Heroine — "needs  no  explanation — but  the 
third  persoii?" 

"A  minor  character,"  the  Hero  said  indifferently. 


STUDIES  IN  SHORT  STORY  WRITING     in 

The  Villain  raised  his  brows.  "Rather  unusual,  having 
her  here  at  this  climax." 

"It  had  to  be  done,"  sighed  the  Heroine,  "to  get  me 
here." 

"It  had  to  be  done  because  I  wouldn't  stay  out,"  re- 
torted the  Minor  Character. 

The  Villain  turned  and  stared  at  her.  "A  piece  of 
impertinence,  upon  my  life!" 

"She  is  simply  unbearable,"  snapped  the  Heroine. 

The  Minor  Character  stuck  out  her  tongue.  "Oh, 
chase  yourself !" 

"Be  still,"  the  Hero  commanded.  "And,  to  go  on  with 
the  story :  Dear  Love,  let  me  carry  you  over  these  sharp 
rocks." 

The  storm  had  abated  somewhat,  and  the  party  pro- 
ceeded in  silence.  The  Villain  led  the  way,  followed 
by  the  Hero,  who  carried  the  Heroine  as  lightly  as  if  she 
were  a  baby.  "And  as  if  she  didn't  weigh  a  hundred  and 
sixty  pounds!"  reflected  the  Minor  Character  bitterly,  as 
she,  unnoticed,  picked  her  way  along. 

On  reaching  the  boat,  the  Villain  sprang  to  the  prow. 
Needless  to  say,  the  Hero  was  there  before  him.  The 
Heroine  sank,  moaning,  into  the  stern.  By  a  violent 
effort,  the  Minor  Character  scrambled  aboard,  and  they 
shot  out  over  the  boiling,  violet  tinted  waters. 

Before  they  had  gone  many  yards,  the  Minor  Char- 
acter grasped  the  Hero's  arm.  "Look!"  she  cried.  "Some 
one  left  on  shore.  A  man  !  Go  back !" 

The  Hero's  lips  set.     "Impossible." 

"He's  not  in  the  book,"  frowned  the  Villain. 

"But  only  look !  Swimming  to  us !  Against  this  tide !" 
The  Minor  Character  made  a  funnel  of  her  hands,  and 
shrieked:  "Hurry!  Hurry!" 

The  man  was  now  plainly  discernible.  He  waved  long 
arms,  startling  them  all  by  the  wildness  of  his  eye. 
"Wait !"  he  yelled.  "Let  me  on." 

"Impossible,"  shouted  the  Hero. 

"You're  not  one  of  us,"  bellowed  the  Villain. 

The  Heroine  added  her  voice.     "We  don't  like — the 


H2  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

way  you  cut — your  hair — or  your  clothes!  But — "  her 
face  suddenly  changed — "you  might  marry  the  Minor 
Character." 

"What!"  shrieked  the  stranger,  rising  manfully  to  the 
waves.  "Marry  the  Minor  Character!  .  .  .  Me!  .  .  . 
I  am  the  Author !" 

Stunned  silence.  The  party  stared  at  one  another. 
Never,  in  all  the  course  of  their  eventful  lives,  had  such 
a  thing  occurred.  The  Hero's  hand  fell  from  the  prow; 
the  Heroine  uttered  a  faint  cry;  the  Villain,  forgetting 
himself,  laughed  sillily.  The  Minor  Character  alone  re- 
tained any  presence  of  mind.  She  brought  the  boat  to  a 
standstill,  and  the  Author  climbed  in. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  this?"  he  stormed,  shaking  his 
fists  madly  and  jumping  up  and  down.  "Paying  no  at- 
tention to  me,  walking  off  when  and  where  you  please ! 
You'll  die  in  the  next  chapter — the  whole  of  you !" 

At  these  terrible  words,  they  shrank  back,  petrified — 
all  but  the  Minor  Character.  She  put  her  hands  on  her 
hips  and  retorted  airily,  "Gee!  a  fine  author!  Gets  us 
into  a  mess  like  this,  and  then  blames  us  for  the  way  we 
act.  What  do  you  want  us  to  do — drown?" 

Her  words  seemed  to  further  enrage  him.  "A  fine 
minor  character,"  he  shouted.  "What  are  you  doing 
here,  anyway?  You  belong  back  in  the  ball  room." 

"Maybe  I  do,  smarty;  but  I'm  not  going  back."  Sud- 
denly the  Minor  Character  became  serious.  "I  know 
what's  the  matter  with  you,"  she  said.  "You're  afraid 
the  publishers  won't  look  at  your  book.  Lord!  I 
wouldn't  blame  them.  I'm  sick  to  death  of  it.  Kill  me 
in  the  next  chapter;  I'll  be  glad  to  get  out  of  the  whole 
thing,  even  with  a  paragraph.  I'm  tired  of  that  freaky 
villain.  I'm  tired  to  death  of  that  silly  heroine.  I'm 
tired  of  that  copy-book  hero.  Why  don't  you  get  some- 
thing original,  ninny?" 

The  Author  began  to  stutter.  "Kill  my  sale — my 
popularity " 

"Resurrect  it,"  she  retorted  calmly ;  "it's  dead  already." 
Then  she  walked  over  to  him  and  held  out  her  hands. 


STUDIES  IN  SHORT  STORY  WRITING     113 

"See  here,  I'll  tell  you  what  to  do.  'Make  me  the  Heroine, 
and  I'll  make  a  best  seller.  Don't  laugh — your  face  looks 
too  ugly  cracked  up  like  that.  Make  me  the  Heroine. 
I've  got  it  in  me.  Just  give  me  a  chance."  Conviction 
was  in  her  voice,  born  of  obtruding  persistently  upon  a 
hundred  and  fifty  pages. 

The  Author  turned  to  his  principals.  The  Hero  was 
gracefully  guiding  the  boat  with  one  hand  and  supporting 
with  the  other  the  flower-like  form  of  the  Heroine,  whose 
beauty  shone  with  unruffled  brilliancy. 

Then  the  Author  turned  and  looked  searchingly  at  the 
Minor  Character;  her  pale,  wicked  eyes,  her  straight 
hair,  her  large  defiant  mouth,  the  whole  awkward  liveli- 
ness of  her.  "When  I  began  to  write  this  book,"  he 
groaned,  "you  were  a  shapeless  bit  of  dough.  I  never 
liked  you.  You  have  forced  yourself  into  every  im- 
portant scene,  ruined  climaxes,  outshone  the  heroine, 
developed  wit — Why?  Oh,  why?" 

"Because  I'm  something  that's  never  been  done  before. 
I'm  new!" 

The  words  had  no  sooner  fallen  from  her  lips  than 
the  Heroine  was  in  the  back  seat;  the  Hero  beside  her; 
the  Villain  in  front  of  him ;  and  at  the  prow,  dominating 
them  all,  shooting  the  boat  forward  with  such  swift  ac- 
tion that  they  gasped  for  breath,  was  the  Minor  Character. 

The  Author  glared,  open-mouthed.  "I  don't  blame 
them,"  he  cried  wrathfully,  "I  detest  you." 

Her  hair  blowing  in  the  wind  and  her  eyes  agleam,  the 
Minor  Character  laughed  back.  "When  something  like 
me  comes  along,"  she  cried,  "what  do  you  count?  I'm 
new!  I'm  new!  Hold  on  to  your  hats — we're  going 
some!" 

The  Author  started  to  retort.  Instead,  with  a  sudden 
sparkle  in  his  eye  and  wildness  of  manner,  he  grabbed 
up  his  pen  again  and  began  to  write. 


PART  II 

"CREATIVE  CRITICISM"  OF  FOUR 
SHORT  STORIES 


READ  THIS  PAGE  BEFORE  YOU  READ 
THE  STORIES 

In  reading  the  storier  on  the  following  pages  try  to 
put  yourself  in  the  writer's  attitude  of  mind.  Assume 
that  you  yourself  have  written  the  stories  or  that  you 
are  in  the  process  of  writing  them.  To  help  you  get 
this  creative  attitude  of  mind  read  several  confessions  of 
successful  authors  who  have  revealed  their  methods  of 
work.  Poe's  explanation  as  to  how  he  wrote  "The 
Raven"  is  quite  illuminative.  Mrs.  Dorothy  Canfield 
Fisher  has  written  an  interesting  essay  entitled,  "How 
Flint  and  Fire  Started  and  Grew."  But  of  all  the  infor- 
mation that  authors  have  furnished  in  regard  to  their 
methods  I  know  of  none  that  will  prove  more  helpful  or 
more  stimulating  to  beginners  in  story  writing  than  the 
interview  with  James  Oppenheim  which  is  reprinted  on 
the  following  pages. 

Read  it  over  carefully. 


117 


AN   INTERVIEW  WITH  JAMES   OPPENHEIM  * 

BY    WILLARD    D.    PRICE 

The  swift  hum  of  the  typewriter  in  the  next  room 
ceased  as  I  asked  for  Mr.  Oppenheim,  and  a  moment  later 
he  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"So  you  don't  believe,"  I  said,  "that  one  must  work 
with  a  soft  pencil  and  at  the  dead  of  night  to  produce  a 
satisfactory  short  story?" 

"I  used  to  think  something  of  the  sort,"  he  confessed, 
as  we  passed  into  the  story  workshop. 

"I  used  to  wait  until  the  fever  caught  me,  and  then 
write  a  story  complete  in  one  night;  and  be  laid  up  for 
two  days  after  it.  Now  I  do  my  best  work  in  the  early 
morning  and  rarely  turn  out  more  than  a  thousand  words 
at  a  sitting.  I  don't  write  as  many  stories  as  I  did  under 
the  old  system.  But  the  work  is  more  carefully  done." 

"How  do  you  get  the  idea  for  a  story  in  the  first  place  ?" 

"I  eet  at  a  story  in  three  different  ways.  First,  through 
a  certain  character.  When  I  see  someone  a  trifle  different 
from  most  people,  I  often  picture  a  story  around  him. 
Second,  through  some  dramatic  situation  that  I  witness  or 
hear  about.  Third,  through  the  idea  or  theme  itself ;  for 
instance,  I  might  take  the  theme  of  child  labor  and  work 
out  the  story  from  that  beginning." 

"When  you  build  a  story  around  a  character,  do  you  use 
the  character  about  as  you  find  him  in  real  life?" 

"Practically  never.  Things  and  people  as  they  are  in 
real  life  won't  do  for  short  stories.  They  are  only  starting 
points,  spring  boards.  It  is  to  ^t  away  from  the  dull  and 
monotonous  in  life  that  people  read  short  stories.  There- 
fore only  the  high  points  in  human  experience  can  be  used 
effectively  by  the  story  writer." 

*  Copyright,    1912,    by    Editor    Magazine    Company. 

118 


AN  INTERVIEW  WITH  JAMES  OPPENHEIM    1 19 

"It  is  so  hard  to  make  a  character  really  live  and 
breathe,"  I  suggested,  "to  make  him  seem  an  actual  flesh- 
and-blood  person  instead  of  a  dry  scrap  of  the  author's 
own  imagination." 

"Yes,  it  is  hard,"  granted  Mr.  Oppenheim.  "I  always 
insist  upon  knowing  my  character  thoroughly  before  I 
write  a  word  about  him.  That  helps  me.  I  must  decide 
who  his  father  and  mother  were,  where  he  was  born,  how 
he  spent  his  childhood,  what  education  he  had,  whether 
he  has  any  brothers  and  sisters,  who  his  friends  are,  and 
so  forth.  I  may  not  mention  one  of  these  details  in  the 
story.  Probably  I  will  not  state  that  he  was  born  on  a 
farm  in  Maine  in  1887  of  plain,  industrious  parents, 
attended  the  village  school,  showed  a  great  liking  for 
reading  and  drawing  but  despised  arithmetic,  and  so  on. 
But  to  have  all  these  things  in  mind  helps  me  form  a  clear 
picture  of  my  character  and  makes  him  stand  out  con- 
vincingly in  my  story.  Knowing  him  intimately  gives  me 
a  sense  of  assurance  in  writing  about  him  that  I  couldn't 
have  otherwise." 

"Then  how  do  you  attempt  to  describe  your  char- 
acter?" 

"The  great  danger,  I  think,  is  in  describing  him  too 
much.  I  generally  try  to  give  one  sharp  flash  that  leaves 
a  clear  impression.  Too  many  details  are  apt  to  blur  the 
picture  rather  than  make  it  clearer. 

"I  remember  Balzac  in  one  of  his  novels  tells  of  a  tall 
woman  who  comes  striding  panther-like  into  the  room — 
she  was  a  dark  beauty  dressed  in  red — and  instantly  I  had 
a  picture  of  her.  Perhaps  it  was  not  Balzac's  picture, 
but  it  was  mine,  and  it  would  have  been  sufficient  for  me 
throughout  the  story.  But  Balzac,  not  content,  went  on 
for  a  page  and  half  adding  one  item  after  another  to  the 
description  until  the  picture  I  had  first  formed  gradually 
broke  up  and  was  lost.  As  a  rule  I  think  one  quick  flash 
is  enough  in  introducing  a  character.  Other  details,  if 
really  essential,  can  be  woven  in  later  during  the  course 
of  the  story." 

"One  more  question  about  character.     Do  you  ever  use 


120  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

the  shifting  viewpoint;  working  through  one  character 
for  a  while  and  then  through  another?" 

"No.  I  have  seen  that  done  very  effectively,  but  I 
don't  like  to  do  it  myself.  I  prefer  the  French  method. 
I  choose  only  one  character  to  act  as  my  spokesman. 
Then  I  write  the  entire  story  through  him.  I  see,  feel, 
describe  everything  through  him,  not  directly." 

"You  do  that  for  the  sake  of  unity  r; 

"Yes.  It  concentrates  the  whole  thing  on  one  person. 
Then,  too,  I  think  you  get  a  more  vivid,  realistic  story 
if  you  try  to  see  the  whole  action  through  the  eyes  of  one 
character." 

"These  principles  and  rules  are  so  interesting — and  so 
valuable,"  I  said.  "But  back  of  them  all  there  must  be 
vision?  And  inspiration?" 

"Well,  perhaps,"  parried  Mr.  Oppenheim,  "though  in 
my  case  I  should  rather  call  it  a  mood  than  inspiration. 
The  mood  I  am  in  at  the  time  is  the  biggest  influence  in 
determining  the  sort  of  story  I  write.  Each  mood  begets 
a  certain  style,  a  certain  manner  of  expressing  things. 
The  mood  of  my  story  'Meg/  for  instance,  was  the  result 
of  a  walk  through  the  dying  autumn  woods. 

"Then  after  mood  comes  rhythm.  I  do  my  best  work 
when  a  certain  melody  beats  through  my  mind.  With  me, 
each  piece  of  writing  has  its  own  rhythm.  'Meg'  was  in 
the  staccato:  'Sharply  at  six  the  factory  whistle  loosed  a 
long  blast  through  the  rainstorm.'  I  can't  write  anything 
real  unless  I  feel  it  strongly.  And  strong  feeling  always 
accompanies,  with  me,  a  rhythm." 

"But  aren't  there  times  when  you  sit  down  to  write 
without  any  strong,  new  impression  in  mind?  What  do 
you  do  then?" 

"I  think  it  is  often  possible  to  induce  a  new  impression 
just  by  intense  application." 

Mr.  Oppenheim  placed  his  hand  on  the  back  of  the 
chair  that  stood  before  his  typewriter.  "I  always  hate 
to  sit  down  on  that  chair,"  he  said,  smiling.  "It  is  always 
hard  work  for  me  to  start  writing.  It  is  hard  to  quit,  too. 


AN  INTERVIEW  WITH  JAMES  OPPENHEIM    121 

But  the  beginning  of  a  story  is  always  the  most  difficult 
part  for  me  to  write." 

"Do  you  make  an  outline  of  your  story  before  you 
begin,  or  do  you  just  let  it  'evolve'?" 

"I  am  helped  by  laying  out  a  rough  synopsis.  For 
example,  to  refer  to  'Meg'  again,  the  synopsis  shouldn't 
be  developed  in  too  much  detail,  for  then  one  is  apt  to 
follow  it  mechanically.  But  the  main  incidents  in  the 
story  I  plan  out  to  the  very  end.  I  know  exactly  what 
the  climax  and  conclusion  are  to  be  before  I  begin." 

"Then  how  should  the  story  begin?" 

"The  main  thing  in  commencing  a  story  is  to  get  some- 
thing different,  unique.  I  think  it  doesn't  matter  much 
whether  it  is  dialogue,  action  or  meditation.  Only  it  must 
be  something  unusual,  something  out  of  the  beaten  track." 

"When  you  write  a  story,  do  you  become  engrossed  in 
it?  Or  can  you  keep  yourself  apart  from  it  and  watch  it 
dispassionately  as  you  write?" 

"As  I  get  into  the  story,  there  are  times  when  I  become 
so  absorbed  that  for  fifteen  minutes  or  so  at  a  time  the 
critic  side  of  me  is  completely  out  of  working  order.  If 
during  one  of  those  periods  of  forgetfulness  someone 
should  break  down  the  door,  I  might  not  notice  it.  Then, 
when  I  reach  a  natural  pause  in  the  action,  my  critic 
emerges  and  goes  back  over  what  I  have  written." 

"And  does  the  critic  discover  much  that  has  to  be 
changed  ?" 

"When  I  first  began  to  write,  he  did.  But  he  doesn't 
find  so  much  now.  Story-writing  is  so  largely  a  matter 
of  practice.  A  good  many  things  begin  to  take  care  of 
themselves  after  a  time." 


THE  SELF-INVENTORY  OF  THE  WRITER 
OF    STORIES 

Bearing  in  mind  Mr.  Oppenheim's  methods  of  writing, 
read  the  stories  on  the  following  pages,  trying  to  trace 
the  steps  taken  by  the  writers  as  they  wrote  them.  Before 
you  read  the  stories  glance  over  the  following  questions 
and  assume  that  each  writer  submitted  himself  to  some 
such  catechism  before  he  wrote  his  story. 

1.  Who  is  to  be  my  leading  character  in  this  story? 
Do  I  know  him  thoroughly  before  I  write  a  word  about 
him?     What  is  to  be  his  dominant  trait? 

2.  What  is  to  be  the  problem,  and  what  is  to  be  the 
solution  in  this  story  ?     Is  the  solution  surprising,  •  dra- 
matic,   character-revealing,    full    of    human    interest    or 
otherwise  worth  while?     Did  I  think  of  the  problem  first 
or  of  the  solution? 

3.  What  is  to  be  the  setting?    Am  I  personally  familiar 
with  the  details  of   local   color?     Can   I   enter   into   the 
emotional  "feel"  of  the  atmosphere? 

4.  What  is  to  be  the  theme  or  moral?     Can  it  be  re- 
vealed through  artistic  means,  or  will  it  burden  down  the 
story  with  its  didacticism? 

5.  What  shall  be  the  action  of  the  narrative  move- 
ment:  rapid,  slow  or  cumulative?     Does  "a  certain  mel- 
ody beat  through  my  mind"  as  I  write? 

6.  Can  I  achieve  my  purpose  best  by  choosing  "only 
one  character  to  act  as  my  spokesman"  and  "write  the 
entire  story  through  him?"     In  this  case  should  he  be 
the  leading  character  or  a  minor  character?     Should  he 
relate  the  story  in  the  first  person  or  should  I  use  the 
over-the-shoulder  viewpoint  ?    Or  would  the  shadow  view- 
point or  shifting  viewpoint  better  serve  my  purpose? 

122 


THE  SELF-INVENTORY  OF  THE  WRITER    123 

7.  Where  shall  I  begin  ?  Can  lorig  descriptions  of  char- 
acter and  setting  be  absorbed  in  the  action  or  deferred 
until  later  in  the  story?     Where  is  the  very  latest  point 
preceding  the  climax  that  I  can  begin  ? 

8.  What  should  be  the  chief  climatic  episode  toward 
which  everything  in  the  story  should  point?     How  many 
other  episodes  dare  I  use,  and  how  few  can  I  use?     How 
shall  I  weave  them  together? 

9.  Is    anything    going    to    take    place    in    my    story 
that  will  tax  my  reader's  credulity?     If  so,  how  can  I 
prepare  him  for  the  event  by  introducing  the  necessary 
hints,  clues,  premonitory  allusions  and  character  motiva- 
tion to  make  it  seem  plausible?     How  can   I  make  my 
character  appear  consistent  and  yet  do  unu.cual  things? 

10.  Is  the  problem  to  be  solved  sufficiently  novel,  un- 
usual or  otherwise  interesting  so  as  to  catch  the  interest 
of  the  reader  early  in  the  story  and  arouse  his  curiosity 
as  to  the  outcome?     Is  the  leading  character  sufficiently 
unusual,  comical,  pathetic,  heroic  or  otherwise  fascinating 
as  to  win  the  reader's  interest  and  put  him  in  a  state  of 
suspense  as  to  what  is  going  to  befall  him? 

11.  How  can  I  make  my  climax  strong?    Can  I  make 
the  leading  character  do  just  the  opposite  from  what  the 
reader  expects  him  to  do?     Can  I  make  him  do  exactly 
what  the  reader  expects  but  in  a  delightfully  unusual, 
unexpected  way  ?    Can  I  withhold  some  clue — some  neces- 
sary link  in  the  chain  of  action — which  may  be  revealed 
at  the  very  end  to  give  the  story  a  novel  twist?     Can  I 
manage   to  have  a   sub-plot   run  a   subterranean   course 
through  the  story  and  reappear  at  the  end  long  enough  to 
give  a  new  turn  to  events? 


THE  GAY  OLD  DOG* 

BY   EDNA    FERBER 

Those  of  you  who  have  dwelt — or  even  lingered — in 
Chicago,  Illinois  (this  is  not  a  humorous  story),  are 
familiar  with  the  region  known  as  the  Loop.  For  those 
others  of  you  to  whom  Chicago  is  a  transfer  point  between 
New  York  and  San  Francisco  there  is  presented  this  brief 
explanation : 

The  Loop  is  a  clamorous,  smoke-infested  district  em- 
braced by  the  iron  arms  of  the  elevated  tracks.  In  a  city 
boasting  fewer  millions,  it  would  be  known  familiarly  as 
downtown.  From  Congress  to  Lake  Street,  from  Wabash 
almost  to  the  river,  those  thunderous  tracks  make  a  com- 
plete circle,  or  loop.  Within  it  lie  the  retail  shops,  the 
commercial  hotels,  the  theaters,  the  restaurants.  It  is  the 
Fifth  Avenue  (diluted)  and  the  Broadway  (deleted)  of 
Chicago.  And  he  who  frequents  it  by  night  in  search 
of  amusement  and  cheer  is  known,  vulgarly,  as  a  loop- 
hound. 

Jo  Hertz  was  a  loop-hound.  On  the  occasion  of  those 
sparse  first  nights  granted  the  metropolis  of  the  Middle 
West  he  was  always  present,  third  row,  aisle,  left.  When 
a  new  loop  cafe  was  opened,  Jo's  table  always  commanded 
an  unobstructed  view  of  anything  worth  viewing.  On 
entering  he  was  wont  to  say,  "Hello,  Gus,"  with  careless 
cordiality  to  the  head-waiter,  the  while  his  eye  roved 
expertly  from  table  to  table  as  he  removed  his  gloves. 

•Copyright,  1917,  by  the  Metropolitan  Magazine  Company.  Copyright, 
1918,  by  Edna  Ferber. 

-  J.24 


THE  GAY  OLD  DOG  125 

He  ordered  things  under  glass,  so  that  his  table,  at  mid- 
night or  thereabouts,  resembled  a  hot-bed  that  favors  the 
bell  system.  The  waiters  fought  for  him.  He  was  the 
kind  of  man  who  mixes  his  own  salad  dressing.  He  liked 
to  call  for  a  bowl,  some  cracked  ice,  lemon,  garlic,  paprika, 
salt,  pepper,  vinegar  and  oil,  and  make  a  rite  of  it.  People 
at  near-by  tables  would  lay  down  their  knives  and  forks 
to  watch,  fascinated.  The  secret  of  it  seemed  to  lie  in 
using  all  the  oil  in  sight  and  calling  for  more. 

That  was  Jo — a  plump  and  lonely  bachelor  of  fifty. 
A  plethoric,  roving-eyed  and  kindly  man,  clutching  vainly 
at  the  garments  of  a  youth  that  had  long  slipped  past  him. 
Jo  Hertz,  in  one  of  those  pinch- waist  belted  suits  and  a 
trench  coat  and  a  little  green  hat,  walking  up  Michigan 
Avenue  of  a  bright  winter's  afternoon,  trying  to  take  the 
curb  with  a  jaunty  youthfulness  against  which  every  one 
of  his  fat-encased  muscles  rebelled,  was  a  sight  for  mirth 
or  pity,  depending  on  one's  vision. 

The  gay-dog  business  was  a  late  phase  in  the  life  of 
Jo  Hertz.  He  had  been  a  quite  different  sort  of  canine. 
The  staid  and  harassed  brother  of  three  unwed  and  selfish 
sisters  is  an  under  dog.  The  tale  of  how  Jo  Hertz  came 
to  be  a  loop-hound  should  not  be  compressed  within  the 
limits  of  short  story.  It  should  be  told  as  are  the  photo- 
plays, with  frequent  throw-backs  and  many  cut-ins.  To 
condense  twenty-three  years  of  a  man's  life  into  some  five 
or  six  thousand  words  requires  a  verbal  economy  amount- 
ing to  parsimony. 

At  twenty-seven  Jo  had  been  the  dutiful,  hard-working 
son  (in  the  wholesale  harness  business)  of  a  widowed  and 
gummidging  mother,  who  called  him  Joey.  If  you  had 
looked  close  you  would  have  seen  that  now  and  then  a 
double  wrinkle  would  appear  between  Jo's  eyes — a  wrinkle 


126  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

that  had  no  business  there  at  twenty-seven.  Then  Jo's 
mother  died,  leaving  him  handicapped  by  a  death-bed 
promise,  the  three  sisters  and  a  three-story-and-basement 
house  on  Calumet  Avenue.  Jo's  wrinkle  became  a  fixture. 

Death-bed  promises  should  be  broken  as  lightly  as  they 
are  seriously  made.  The  dead  have  no  right  to  lay  their 
clammy  fingers  upon  the  living. 

"Joey,"  she  had  said,  in  her  high,  thin  voice,  "take  care 
of  the  girls." 

"I  will,  ma,"  Jo  had  choked. 

"Joey,"  and  the  voice  was  weaker,  "promise  me  you 
won't  marry  till  the  girls  are  all  provided  for."  Then  as 
Jo  had  hesitated,  appalled:  "Joev>  it's  my  dying  wish. 
Promise !" 

"I  promise,  ma,"  he  had  said. 

Whereupon  his  mother  had  died,  comfortably,  leaving 
him  with  a  completely  ruined  life. 

They  were  not  bad-looking  girls,  and  they  had  a  certain 
style,  too.  That  is,  Stell  and  Eva  had.  Carrie,  the 
middle  one,  taught  school  over  on  the  West  Side.  In 
those  days  it  took  her  almost  two  hours  each  way.  She 
said  the  kind  of  costume  she  required  should  have  been 
corrugated  steel.  But  all  three  knew  what  was  being 
worn,  and  they  wore  it — or  fairly  faithful  copies  of  it. 
Eva,  the  housekeeping  sister,  had  a  needle  knack.  She 
could  skim  the  State  Street  windows  and  come  away 
with  a  mental  photograph  of  every  separate  tuck,  hem, 
yoke,  and  ribbon.  Heads  of  departments  showed  her  the 
things  they  kept  in  drawers,  and  she  went  home  and 
reproduced  them  with  the  aid  of  a  two-dollar-a-day 
seamstress.  Stell,  the  youngest,  was  the  beauty.  They 
called  her  Babe.  She  wasn't  really  a  beauty,  but  some 
one  had  once  told  her  that  she  looked  like  Janice  Meredith 


THE  GAY.  OLD  DOG  127 

(it  was  when  that  work  of  fiction  was  at  the  height  of 
its  popularity).  For  years  afterward,  whenever  she  went 
to  parties,  she  affected  a  single,  fat  curl  over  her  right 
shoulder,  with  a  rose  stuck  through  it. 

Twenty-three  years  ago  one's  sisters  did  not  strain  at 
the  household  leash,  nor  crave  a  career.  Carrie  taught 
school,  and  hated  it.  Eva  kept  house  expertly  and  com- 
plainingly.  Babe's  profession  was  being  the  family 
beauty,  and  it  took  all  her  spare  time.  Eva  always  let 
her  sleep  until  ten. 

This  was  Jo's  household,  and  he  was  the  nominal  head 
of  it.  But  it  was  an  empty  title.  The  three  women 
dominated  his  life.  They  weren't  consciously  selfish.  If 
you  had  called  them  cruel  they  would  have  put  you  down 
as  mad.  When  you  are  the  lone  brother  of  three  sisters, 
it  means  that  you  must  constantly  be  calling  for,  escorting, 
or  dropping  one  of  them  somewhere.  Most  men  of  Jo's 
age  were  standing  before  their  mirror  of  a  Saturday  night, 
whistling  blithely  and  abstractedly  while  they  discarded  a 
blue  polka-dot  for  a  maroon  tie,  whipped  off  the  maroon 
for  a  shot-silk  in  favor  of  a  plain  black-and-white,  because 
she  had  once  said  she  preferred  quiet  ties.  Jo,  when  he 
should  have  been  preening  his  feathers  for  conquest,  was 
saying : 

"Well,  my  God,  I  am  hurrying!  Give  a  man  time, 
can't  you?  I  just  got  home.  You  girls  have  been  laying 
around  the  house  all  day.  No  wonder  you're  ready." 

He  took  a  certain  pride  in  seeing  his  sisters  well 
dressed,  at  a  time  when  he  should  have  been  reveling  in 
fancy  waistcoats  and  brilliant-hued  socks,  according  to 
the  style  of  that  day,  and  the  inalienable  right  of  any 
unwed  male  under  thirty,  in  any  day.  On  those  rare 
occasions  when  his  business  necessitated  an  out-of-town 


128  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

trip,  he  would  spend  half  a  day  floundering  about  the 
shops,  selecting  handkerchiefs,  or  stockings,  or  feathers, 
or  fans,  or  gloves  for  the  girls.  They  always  turned  out 
to  be  the  wrong  kind,  judging  by  their  reception. 

From  Carrie,  "What  in  the  world  do  I  want  of  a  fan !" 

"I  thought  you  didn't  have  one,"  Jo  would  say. 

"I  haven't.     I  never  go  to  dances." 

Jo  would  pass  a  futile  hand  over  the  top  of  his  head, 
as  was  his  way  when  disturbed.  "I  just  thought  you'd 
like  one.  I  thought  every  girl  liked  a  fan.  Just,"  feebly, 
"just  to— to  have." 

"Oh,  for  pity's  sake!" 

And  from  Eva  or  Babe,  "I've  got  silk  stockings,  Jo." 
Or,  "You  brought  me  handkerchiefs  the  last  time." 

There  was  something  selfish  in  his  giving,  as  there 
always  is  in  any  gift  freely  and  joyfully  made.  They 
never  suspected  the  exquisite  pleasure  it  gave  him  to  select 
these  things;  these  fine,  soft,  silken  things.  There  were 
many  things  about  this  slow-going,  amiable  brother  of 
theirs  that  they  never  suspected.  If  you  had  told  them 
he  was  a  dreamer  of  dreams,  for  example,  they  would 
have  been  amused.  Sometimes,  dead-tired  by  nine  o'clock, 
after  a  hard  day  downtown,  he  would  doze  over  the 
evening  paper.  At  intervals  he  would  wake,  red-eyed, 
to  a  snatch  of  conversation  such  as,  "Yes,  but  if  you  get 
a  blue  you  can  wear  it  anywhere.  It's  dressy,  and  at  the 
same  time  it's  quiet,  too."  Eva,  the  expert,  wrestling  with 
Carrie  over  the  problem  of  the  new  spring  dress.  They 
never  guessed  that  the  commonplace  man  in  the  frayed 
old  smoking- jacket  had  banished  them  all  from  the  room 
long  ago ;  had  banished  himself,  for  that  matter.  In  his 
place  was  a  tall,  debonair,  and  rather  dangerously  hand- 
some man  to  whom  six  o'clock  spelled  evening  clothes. 


THE  GAY  OLD  DOG  129 

The  kind  of  a  man  who  can  lean  up  against  a  mantel, 
or  propose  a  toast,  or  give  an  order  to  a  man-servant, 
or  whisper  a  gallant  speech  in  a  lady's  ear  with  equal  ease. 
The  shabby  old  house  on  Calumet  Avenue  was  trans- 
formed into  a  brocaded  and  chandeliered  rendezvous  for 
the  brilliance  of  the  city.  Beauty  was  there,  and  wit. 
But  none  so  beautiful  and  witty  as  She.  Mrs. — er — Jo 
Hertz.  There  was  wine,  of  course ;  but  no  vulgar  display. 
There  was  music ;  the  soft  sheen  of  satin ;  laughter.  And 
he  the  gracious,  tactful  host,  king  of  his  own  domain 

"Jo,  for  heaven's  sake,  if  you're  going  to  snore  go  to 
bed !" 

"Why— did  I  fall  asleep?" 

"You  haven't  been  doing  anything  else  all  evening.  A 
person  would  think  you  were  fifty  instead  of  thirty." 

And  Jo  Hertz  was  again  just  the  dull,  gray,  common- 
place brother  of  three  well-meaning  sisters. 

Babe  used  to  say  petulantly,  "Jo,  why  don't  you  ever 
bring  home  any  of  your  men  friends?  A  girl  might  as 
well  not  have  a  brother,  all  the  good  you  do." 

Jo,  conscience-stricken,  did  his  best  to  make  amends. 
But  a  man  who  has  been  petticoat-ridden  for  years  loses 
the  knack,"  somehow,  of  comradeship  with  men.  He  ac- 
quires, too,  a  knowledge  of  women,  and  a  distaste  for 
them,  equaled  only,  perhaps,  by  that  of  an  elevator-starter 
in  a  department  store. 

Which  brings  us  to  one  Sunday  in  May.  Jo  came  home 
from  a  late  Sunday  afternoon  walk  to  find  company  for 
supper.  Carrie  often  had  in  one  of  her  school-teacher 
friends,  or  Babe  one  of  her  frivolous  intimates,  or  even 
Eva  a  staid  guest  of  the  old-girl  type.  There  was  always 
a  Sunday  night  supper  of  potato  salad,  and  cold  meat, 
and  coffee,  and  perhaps  a  fresh  cake.  Jo  rather  enjoyed 


130  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

it,  being  a  hospitable  soul.  But  he  regarded  the  guests 
with  the  undazzled  eyes  of  a  man  to  whom  they  were 
just  so  many  petticoats,  timid  of  the  night  streets  and 
requiring  escort  home.  If  you  had  suggested  to  him  that 
some  of  his  sisters'  popularity  was  due  to  his  own  pres- 
ence, or  if  you  had  hinted  that  the  more  kittenish  of  these 
visitors  were  palpably  making  eyes  at  him,  he  would  have 
stared  in  amazement  and  unbelief. 

This  Sunday  night  it  turned  out  to  be  one  of  Carrie's 
friends. 

"Emily,"  said  Carrie,  "this  is  my  brother,  Jo." 

Jo  had  learned  what  to  expect  in  Carrie's  friends. 
Drab-looking  women  in  the  late  thirties,  whose  facial  lines 
all  slanted  downward. 

"Happy  to  meet  you,"  said  Jo,  and  looked  down  at  a 
different  sort  altogether.  A  most  surprisingly  different 
sort,  for  one  of  Carrie's  friends.  This  Emily  person  was 
very  small,  and  fluffy,  and  blue-eyed,  and  sort  of — well, 
crinkly  looking.  You  know.  The  corners  of  her  mouth 
when  she  smiled,  and  her  eyes  when  she  looked  up  at  you, 
and  her  hair,  which  was  brown,  but  had  the  miraculous 
effect,  somehow,  of  being  golden. 

Jo  shook  hands  with  her.  Her  hand  was  incredibly 
small,  and  soft,  so  that  you  were  afraid  of  crushing  it, 
until  you  discovered  she  had  a  firm  little  grip  all  her  own. 
It  surprised  and  amused  you,  that  grip,  as  does  a  baby's 
unexpected  clutch  on  your  patronizing  forefinger.  As  Jo 
felt  it  in  his  own  big  clasp,  the  strangest  thing  happened 
to  him.  Something  inside  Jo  Hertz  stopped  working  for 
a  moment,  then  lurched  sickeningly,  then  thumped  like 
mad.  It  was  his  heart.  He  stood  staring  down  at  her, 
and  she  up  at  him,  until  the  others  laughed.  Then  their 
hands  fell  apart,  lingeringly. 


THE  GAY  OLD  DOG  131 

"Are  you  a  school-teacher,  Emily?"  he  said. 

"Kindergarten.  It's  my  first  year.  And  don't  call  me 
Emily,  please." 

"Why  not?  It's  your  name.  I  think  it's  the  prettiest 
name  in  the  world."  Which  he  hadn't  meant  to  say  at  all. 
In  fact,  he  was  perfectly  aghast  to  find  himself  saying  it. 
But  he  meant  it. 

At  supper  he  passed  her  things,  and  stared,  until  every- 
body laughed  again,  and  Eva  said  acidly,  "Why  don't  you 
feed  her?" 

It  wasn't  that  Emily  had  an  air  of  helplessness.  She 
just  made  you  feel  you  wanted  her  to  be  helpless,  so  that 
you  could  help  her. 

Jo  took  her  home,  and  from  that  Sunday  night  he  began 
to  strain  at  the  leash.  He  took  his  sisters  out,  dutifully, 
but  he  would  suggest,  with  a  carelessness  that  deceived 
no  one,  "Don't  you  want  one  of  your  girl  friends  to  come 
along?  That  little  What's-her-name — Emily,  or  some- 
thing. So  long's  I've  got  three  of  you,  I  might  as  well 
have  a  full  squad." 

For  a  long  time  he  didn't  know  what  was  the  matter 
with  him.  He  only  knew  he  was  miserable,  and  yet 
happy.  Sometimes  his  heart  seemed  to  ache  with  an 
actual  physical  ache.  He  realized  that  he  wanted  to  do 
things  for  Emily.  He  wanted  to  buy  things  for  Emily — 
useless,  pretty,  expensive  things  that  he  couldn't  afford. 
He  wanted  to  buy  everything  that  Emily  needed,  and 
everything  that  Emily  desired.  He  wanted  to  marry 
Emily.  That  was  it.  He  discovered  that  one  day,  with 
a  shock,  in  the  midst  of  a  transaction  in  the  harness  busi- 
ness. He  stared  at  the  man  with  whom  he  was  dealing 
until  that  startled  person  grew  uncomfortable. 

"What's  the  matter,  Hertz?" 


132  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

"Matter?" 

"You  look  as  if  you'd  seen  a  ghost  or  found  a  gold 
mine.  I  don't  know  which." 

"Gold  mine,"  said  Jo.     And  then,  "No.     Ghost." 

For  he  remembered  that  high,  thin  voice,  and  his 
promise.  And  the  harness  business  was  slithering  down- 
hill with  dreadful  rapidity,  as  the  automobile  business 
began  its  amazing  climb.  Jo  tried  to  stop  it.  But  he 
was  not  that  kind  of  business  man.  It  never  occurred 
to  him  to  jump  out  of  the  down-going  vehicle  and  catch 
the  up-going  one.  He  stayed  on,  vainly  applying  brakes 
that  refused  to  work. 

"You  know,  Emily,  I  couldn't  support  two  households 
now.  Not  the  way  things  are.  But  if  you'll  wait.  If 
you'll  only  wait.  The  girls  might — that  is,  Babe  and 
Carrie " 

She  was  a  sensible  little  thing,  Emily.  "Of  course  I'll 
wait.  But  we  mustn't  just  sit  back  and  let  the  years  go 
by.  We've  got  to  help." 

She  went  about  it  as  if  she  were  already  a  little  match- 
making matron.  She  corraled  all  the  men  she  had  ever 
known  and  introduced  them  to  Babe,  Carrie,  and  Eva 
separately,  in  pairs,  en  masse.  She  arranged  parties  at 
which  Babe  could  display  the  curl.  She  got  up  picnics. 
She  stayed  home  while  Jo  took  the  three  about.  When 
she  was  present  she  tried  to  look  as  plain  and  obscure  as 
possible,  so  that  the  sisters  should  show  up  to  advantage. 
She  schemed,  and  planned,  and  contrived,  and  hoped; 
and  smiled  into  Jo's  despairing  eyes. 

And  three  years  went  by.  Three  precious  years. 
Carrie  still  taught  school,  and  hated  it.  Eva  kept  house, 
more  and  more  complainingly  as  prices  advanced  and 
allowance  retreated.  Stell  was  still  Babe,  the  family 


THE  GAY  OLD  DOG  133 

beauty;  but  even  she  knew  that  the  time  was  past  for 
curls.  Emily's  hair,  somehow,  lost  its  glint  and  began  to 
look  just  plain  brown.  Her  crinkliness  began  to  iron  out. 

"Now,  look  here!"  Jo  argued,  desperately,  one  night. 
"We  could  be  happy,  anyway.  There's  plenty  of  room 
at  the  house.  Lots  of  people  begin  that  way.  Of  course, 
I  couldn't  give  you  all  I'd  like  to  at  first.  But  maybe, 
after  a  while " 

No  dreams  of  salons,  and  brocade,  and  velvet-footed 
servitors,  and  satin  damask  now.  Just  two  rooms,  all 
their  own,  all  alone,  and  Emily  to  work  for.  That  was 
his  dream.  But  it  seemed  less  possible  than  that  other 
absurd  one  had  been. 

You  know  that  Emily  was  as  practical  a  little  thing  as 
she  looked  fluffy.  She  knew  women.  Especially  did  she 
know  Eva,  and  Carrie,  and  Babe.  She  tried  to  imagine 
herself  taking  the  household  affairs  and  the  housekeeping 
pocketbook  out  of  Eva's  expert  hands.  Eva  had  once 
displayed  to  her  a  sheaf  of  aigrettes  she  had  bought  with 
what  she  saved  out  of  the  housekeeping  money.  So  then 
she  tried  to  picture  herself  allowing  the  reins  of  Jo's  house 
to  remain  in  Eva's  hands.  And  everything  feminine  and 
normal  in  her  rebelled.  Emily  knew  she'd  want  to  put 
away  her  own  freshly  laundered  linen,  and  smooth  it,  and 
pat  it.  She  was  that  kind  of  woman.  She  knew  she'd 
want  to  do  her  own  delightful  haggling  with  butcher  and 
vegetable  peddler.  She  knew  she'd  want  to  muss  Jo's 
hair,  and  sit  on  his  knee,  and  even  quarrel  with  him,  if 
necessary,  without  the  awareness  of  three  ever-present 
pairs  of  maiden  eyes  and  ears. 

"No !  No !  We'd  only  be  miserable.  I  know.  Even 
if  they  didn't  object.  And  they  would,  Jo.  Wouldn't 
they?" 


134  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

His  silence  was  miserable  assent.  Then,  "But  you  do 
love  me,  don't  you,  Emily?" 

"I  do,  Jo.  I  love  you — and  love  you — and  love  you. 
But,  Jo,  I— can't." 

"I  know  it,  dear.  I  knew  it  all  the  time,  really.  I  just 
thought,  maybe,  somehow " 

The  two  sat  staring  for  a  moment  into  space,  their 
hands  clasped.  Then  they  both  shut  their  eyes,  with  a 
little  shudder,  as  though  what  they  saw  was  terrible  to 
look  upon.  Emily's  hand,  the  tiny  hand  that  was  so 
unexpectedly  firm,  tightened  its  hold  on  his,  and  his 
crushed  the  absurd  fingers  until  she  winced  with  pain. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  the  end,  and  they  knew  it. 

Emily  wasn't  the  kind  of  a  girl  who  would  be  left  to 
pine.  There  are  too  many  Jo's  in  the  world  whose  hearts 
are  prone  to  lurch  and  then  thump  at  the  feel  of  a  soft, 
fluttering,  incredibly  small  hand  in  their  grip.  One  year 
later  Emily  was  married  to  a  young  man  whose  father 
owned  a  large,  pie-shaped  slice  of  the  prosperous  state 
of  Michigan. 

That  being  safely  accomplished,  there  was  something 
grimly  humorous  in  the  trend  taken  by  affairs  in  the  old 
house  on  Calumet.  For  Eva  married.  Of  all  people, 
Eva !  Married  well,  too,  though  he  was  a  great  deal  older 
than  she.  She  went  off  in  a  hat  she  had  copied  from  a 
French  model  at  Field's,  and  a  suit  she  had  contrived  with 
a  home  dressmaker,  aided  by  pressing  on  the  part  of  the 
little  tailor  in  the  basement  over  on  Thirty-first  Street. 
It  was  the  last  of  that,  though.  The  next  time  they  saw 
her,  she  had  on  a  hat  that  even  she  would  have  despaired 
of  copying,  and  a  suit  that  sort  of  melted  into  your  gaze. 
She  moved  to  the  North  Side  (trust  Eva  for  that),  and 
Babe  assumed  the  management  of  the  household  on 


THE  GAY  OLD  DOG  135 

Calumet  Avenue.  It  was  rather  a -pinched  little  household 
now,  for  the  harness  business  shrank  and  shrank. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  expect  me  to  keep  house 
decently  on  this !"  Babe  would  say  contemptuously. 
Babe's  nose,  always  a  little  inclined  to  sharpness,  had 
whittled  down  to  a  point  of  late.  "If  you  knew  what 
Ben  gives  Eva." 

"It's  the  best  I  can  do,  Sis.  Business  is  something 
rotten." 

"Ben  says  if  you  had  the  least  bit  of "  Ben  was 

Eva's  husband,  and  quotable,  as  are  all  successful  men. 

"I  don't  care  what  Ben  says,"  shouted  Jo,  goaded  into 
rage.  "I'm  sick  of  your  everlasting  Ben.  Go  and  get  a 
Ben  of  your  own,  why  don't  you,  if  you're  so  stuck  on 
the  way  he  does  things." 

And  Babe  did.  She  made  a  last  desperate  drive,  aided 
by  Eva,  and  she  captured  a  rather  surprised  young  man 
in  the  brokerage  way,  who  had  made  up  his  mind  not  to 
marry  for  years  and  years.  Eva  wanted  to  give  her  her 
wedding  things,  but  at  that  Jo  broke  into  sudden  rebellion. 

"No,  sir !  No  Ben  is  going  to  buy  my  sister's  wedding 
clothes,  understand?  I  guess  I'm  not  broke — yet.  I'll 
furnish  the  money  for  her  things,  and  there'll  be  enough 
of  them,  too." 

Babe  had  as  useless  a  trousseau,  and  as  filled  with 
extravagant  pink-and-blue  and  lacy  and  frilly  things  as 
any  daughter  of  doting  parents.  Jo  seemed  to  find  a 
grim  pleasure  in  providing  them.  But  it  left  him  pretty 
well  pinched.  After  Babe's  marriage  (she  insisted  that 
they  call  her  Estelle  now)  Jo  sold  the  house  on  Calumet. 
He  and  Carrie  took  one  of  those  little  flats  that  were 
springing  up,  seemingly  over  night,  all  through  Chicago's 
South  Side. 


136  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

There  was  nothing  domestic  about  Carrie.  She  had 
given  up  teaching  two  years  before,  and  had  gone  into 
Social  Service  work  on  the  West  Side.  She  had  what 
is  known  as  a  legal  mind,  hard,  clear,  orderly,  and  she 
made  a  great  success  of  it.  Her  dream  was  to  live  at 
the  Settlement  House  and  give  all  her  time  to  the  work. 
Upon  the  little  household  she  bestowed  a  certain  amount 
of  grim,  capable  attention.  It  was  the  same  kind  of 
attention  she  would  have  given  a  piece  of  machinery 
whose  oiling  and  running  had  been  entrusted  to  her  care. 
She  hated  it,  and  didn't  hesitate  to  say  so. 

Jo  took  to  prowling  about  department  store  basements, 
and  household  goods  sections.  He  was  always  sending 
home  a  bargain  in  a  ham,  or  a  sack  of  potatoes,  or  fifty 
pounds  of  sugar,  or  a  window  clamp,  or  a  new  kind  of 
paring  knife.  He  was  forever  doing  odd  little  jobs  that 
the  janitor  should  have  done.  It  was  the  domestic  in  him 
claiming  its  own. 

Then,  one  night,  Carrie  came  home  with  a  dull  glow 
in  her  leathery  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  alight  with  resolve. 
They  had  what  she  called  a  plain  talk. 

"Listen,  Jo.  They've  offered  me  the  job  of  first  assist- 
ant resident  worker.  And  I'm  going  to  take  it.  Take  it ! 
I  know  fifty  other  girls  who'd  give  their  ears  for  it. 
I  go  in  next  month." 

They  were  at  dinner.  Jo  looked  up  from  his  plate, 
dully.  Then  he  glanced  around  the  little  dining-room, 
with  its  ugly  tan  walls  and  its  heavy  dark  furniture  (the 
Calumet  Street  pieces  fitted  cumbersomely  into  the  five- 
room  flat). 

"Away?     Away  from  here,  you  mean — to  live?" 

Carrie  laid  down  her  fork.  "Well,  really,  Jo!  After 
all  that  explanation." 


THE  GAY  OLD  DOG  137 

"But  to  go  over  there  to  live !  *  Why,  that  neighbor- 
hood's full  of  dirt,  and  disease,  and  crime,  and  the  Lord 
knows  what  all.  I  can't  let  you  do  that,  Carrie." 

Carrie's  chin  came  up.  She  laughed  a  short  little 
laugh.  "Let  me!  That's  eighteenth-century  talk,  Jo. 
My  life's  my  own  to  live.  I'm  going." 

And  she  went.  Jo  stayed  on  in  the  apartment  until 
the  lease  was  up.  Then  he  sold  what  furniture  he  could, 
stored  or  gave  away  the  rest,  and  took  a  room  on  Michigan 
Avenue  in  one  of  the  old  stone  mansions  whose  decayed 
splendor  was  being  put  to  such  purpose. 

Jo  Hertz  was  his  own  master.  Free  to  marry.  Free 
to  come  and  go.  And  he  found  he  didn't  even  think  of 
marrying.  He  didn't  even  want  to  come  or  go,  par- 
ticularly. A  rather  frumpy  old  bachelor,  with  thinning 
hair  and  a  thickening  neck.  Much  has  been  written  about 
the  unwed,  middle-aged  woman ;  her  f ussiness,  her  prim- 
ness, her  angularity  of  mind  and  body.  In  the  male  that 
same  fussiness  develops,  and  a  certain  primness,  too.  But 
he  grows  flabby  where  she  grows  lean. 

Every  Thursday  evening  he  took  dinner  at  Eva's,  and 
on  Sunday  noon  at  Stell's.  He  tucked  his  napkin  under 
his  chin  and  openly  enjoyed  the  home-made  soup  and  the 
well-cooked  meats.  After  dinner  he  tried  to  talk  business 
with  Eva's  husband,  or  Stell's.  His  business  talks  were 
the  old-fashioned  kind,  beginning: 

"Well,  now,  looka  here.  Take,  f'rinstance,  your  raw 
hides  and  leathers." 

But  Ben  and  George  didn't  want  to  take  f'rinstance 
your  raw  hides  and  leathers.  They  wanted,  when  they 
took  anything  at  all,  to  take  golf,  or  politics,  or  stocks. 
They  were  the  modern  type  of  business  man  who  prefers 
to  leave  his  work  out  of  his  play.  Business,  with  them, 


138  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

was  a  profession — a  finely  graded  and  balanced  thing, 
differing  from  Jo's  clumsy,  downhill  style  as  completely 
as  does  the  method  of  a  great  criminal  detective  differ 
from  that  of  a  village  constable.  They  would  listen, 
restively,  and  say  "Uh-hur"  at  intervals,  and  at  the  first 
chance  they  would  sort  of  fade  out  of  the  room,  with  a 
meaning  glance  at  their  wives.  Eva  had  two  children 
now.  Girls.  They  treated  Uncle  Jo  with  good-natured 
tolerance.  Stell  had  no  children.  Uncle  Jo  degenerated, 
by  almost  imperceptible  degrees,  from  the  position  of 
honored  guest,  who  is  served  with  white  meat,  to  that  of 
one  who  is  content  with  a  leg  and  one  of  those  obscure 
bony  sections  which,  after  much  turning  with  a  bewildered 
and  investigating  knife  and  fork,  leave  one  baffled  and 
unsatisfied. 

Eva  and  Stell  got  together  and  decided  that  Jo  ought 
to  marry. 

"It  isn't  natural,"  Eva  told  him.  "I  never  saw  a  man 
who  took  so  little  interest  in  women." 

"Me!"  protested  Jo  almost  shyly.     "Women!" 

"Yes.  Of  course.  You  act  like  a  frightened  school 
boy." 

So  they  had  in  for  dinner  certain  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances of  fitting  age.  They  spoke  of  them  as  "splendid 
girls."  Between  thirty-six  and  forty.  They  talked  aw- 
fully well,  in  firm,  clear  way,  about  civics,  and  classes, 
and  politics,  and  economics,  and  boards.  They  rather 
terrified  Jo.  He  didn't  understand  much  that  they  talked 
about,  and  he  felt  humbly  inferior,  and  yet  a  little  resent- 
ful, as  if  something  had  passed  him  by.  He  escorted 
them  home,  dutifully,  though  they  told  him  not  to  bother, 
and  they  evidently  meant  it.  They  seemed  capable,  not 
only  of  going  home  quite  unattended,  but  of  delivering  a 


THE  GAY  OLD  DOG  139 

pointed  lecture  to  any  highwayman  or  brawler  who  might 
molest  them. 

The  following  Thursday  Eva  would  say,  "How  did 
you  like  her,  Jo?" 

"Like  who?"  Jo  would  spar  feebly. 

"Miss  Matthews." 

"Who's  she?" 

"Now,  don't  be  funny,  Jo.  You  know  very  well  I  mean 
the  girl  who  was  here  for  dinner.  The  one  who  talked 
so  well  on  the  emigration  question." 

"Oh,  her!  Why,  I  liked  her,  all  right.  Seems  to  be 
a  smart  woman." 

"Smart!     She's  a  perfectly  splendid  girl." 

"Sure."     Jo  would  agree  cheerfully. 

"But  didn't  you  like  her?" 

"I  can't  say  I  did,  Eve.  And  I  can't  say  I  didn't. 
She  made  me  think  a  lot  of  a  teacher  I  had  in  the  fifth 
reader.  Name  of  Himes.  As  I  recall  her,  she  must 
have  been  a  fine  woman.  But  I  never  thought  of  her  as 
a  woman  at  all.  She  was  just  Teacher." 

"You  make  me  tired,"  snapped  Eva  impatiently.  "A 
man  of  your  age.  You  don't  expect  to  marry  a  girl, 
do  you?  A  child!" 

"I  don't  expect  to  marry  anybody,"  Jo  had  answered. 

And  that  was  the  truth,  lonely  though  he  often  was. 

The  following  year  Eva  moved  to  Winnetka.  Any  one 
who  got  the  meaning  of  the  Loop  knows  the  significance 
of  a  move  to  a  north  shore  suburb,  and  a  house.  Eva's 
daughter,  Ethel,  was  growing  up,  and  her  mother  had  an 
eye  on  society. 

That  did  away  with  Jo's  Thursday  dinner.  Then 
Stell's  husband  bought  a  car.  They  went  out  into  the 
country  every  Sunday.  Stell  said  it  was  getting  so  that 


140  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

maids  objected  to  Sunday  dinners,  anyway.  Besides,  they 
were  unhealthy,  old-fashioned  things.  They  always 
meant  to  ask  Jo  to  come  along,  but  by  the  time  their 
friends  were  placed,  and  the  lunch,  and  the  boxes,  and 
sweaters,  and  George's  camera,  and  everything,  there 
seemed  to  be  no  room  for  a  man  of  Jo's  bulk.  So  that 
eliminated  the  Sunday  dinners. 

"Just  drop  in  any  time  during  the  week,"  Stell  said, 
"for  dinner.  Except  Wednesday — that's  our  bridge  night 
— and  Saturday.  And,  of  course,  Thursday.  Cook  is 
out  that  night.  Don't  wait  for  me  to  'phone." 

And  so  Jo  drifted  into  that  sad-eyed,  dyspeptic  family 
made  up  of  those  you  see  dining  in  second-rate  restau- 
rants, their  paper  propped  up  against  the  bowl  of  oyster 
crackers,  munching  solemnly  and  with  indifference  to  the 
stare  of  the  passer-by  surveying  them  through  the  brazen 
plate-glass  window. 

And  then  came  the  War.  The  war  that  spelled  death 
and  destruction  to  millions.  The  war  that  brought  a 
fortune  to  Jo  Hertz,  and  transformed  him,  over  night, 
from  a  baggy-kneed  old  bachelor  whose  business  was  a 
failure  to  a  prosperous  manufacturer  whose  only  trouble 
was  the  shortage  in  hides  for  the  making  of  his  product — 
leather !  The  armies  of  Europe  called  for  it.  Harnesses  ! 
More  harnesses  !  Straps !  Millions  of  straps !  More ! 
More! 

The  musty  old  harness  business  over  on  Lake  Street 
was  magically  changed  from  a  dust-covered,  dead-alive 
concern  to  an  orderly  hive  that  hummed  and  glittered  with 
success.  Orders  poured  in.  Jo  Hertz  had  inside  infor- 
mation on  the  War.  He  knew  about  troops  and  horses. 
He  talked  with  French  and  English  and  Italian  buyers — 


THE  GAY  OLD  DOG  141 

noblemen,  many  01  them — commissioned  by  their  coun- 
tries to  get  American-made  supplies.  And  now,  when  he 
said  to  Ben  or  George,  "Take  f'rinstance  your  raw  hides 
and  leathers,"  they  listened  with  respectful  attention. 

And  then  began  the  gay  dog  business  in  the  life  of 
Jo  Hertz.  He  developed  into  a  loop-hound,  ever  keen 
on  the  scent  of  fresh  pleasure.  That  side  of  Jo  Hertz 
which  had  been  repressed  and  crushed  and  ignored  began 
to  bloom,  unhealthily.  At  first  he  spent  money  on  his 
rather  contemptuous  nieces.  He  sent  them  gorgeous  fans, 
and  watch  bracelets,  and  velvet  bags.  He  took  two  ex- 
pensive rooms  at  a  downtown  hotel,  and  there  was  some- 
thing more  tear-compelling  than  grotesque  about  the  way 
he  gloated  over  the  luxury  of  a  separate  ice- water  tap  in 
the  bathroom.  He  explained  it. 

"Just  turn  it  on.  Ice-water!  Any  hour  of  the  day 
or  night." 

He  bought  a  car.  Naturally.  A  glittering  affair;  in 
color  a  bright  blue,  with  pale-blue  leather  straps  and  a 
great  deal  of  gold  fittings  and  wire  wheels.  Eva  said  it 
was  the  kind  of  a  thing  a  soubrette  would  use,  rather  than 
an  elderly  business  man.  You  saw  him  driving  about  in 
it,  red- faced  and  rather  awkward  at  the  wheel.  You  saw 
him,  too,  in  the  Pompeiian  room  at  the  Congress  Hotel 
of  a  Saturday  afternoon  when  doubtful  and  roving-eyed 
matrons  in  kolinsky  capes  are  wont  to  congregate  to  sip 
pale  amber  drinks.  Actors  grew  to  recognize  the  semi- 
bald  head  and  the  shining,  round,  good-natured  face  loom- 
ing out  at  them  from  the  dim  well  of  the  parquet,  and 
sometimes,  in  a  musical  show,  they  directed  a  quip  at  him, 
and  he  liked  it.  He  could  pick  out  the  critics  as  they 
came  down  the  aisle,  and  even  had  a  nodding  acquaintance 
with  two  of  them. 


142  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

"Kelly,  of  the  Herald,"  he  would  say  carelessly.  "Bean, 
of  the  Trib.  They're  all  afraid  of  him." 

So  he  frolicked,  ponderously.  In  New  York  he  might 
have  been  called  a  Man  About  Town. 

And  he  was  lonesome.  He  was  very  lonesome.  So 
he  searched  about  in  his  mind  and  brought  from  the  dim 
past  the  memory  of  the  luxuriously  furnished  establish- 
ment of  which  he  used  to  dream  in  the  evenings  when  he 
dozed  over  his  paper  in  the  old  house  on  Calumet.  So 
he  rented  an  apartment,  many-roomed  and  expensive,  with 
a  man-servant  in  charge,  and  furnished  it  in  styles  and 
periods  ranging  through  all  the  Louis.  The  living  room 
was  mostly  rose  color.  It  was  like  an  unhealthy  and 
bloated  boudoir.  And  yet  there  was  nothing  sybaritic  or 
uncleanly  in  the  sight  of  this  paunchy,  middle-aged  man 
sinking  into  the  rosy-cushioned  luxury  of  his  ridiculous 
home.  It  was  a  frank  and  naive  indulgence  of  long- 
starved  senses,  and  there  was  in  it  a  great  resemblance 
to  the  rolling-eyed  ecstasy  of  a  school-boy  smacking  his 
lips  over  an  all-day  sucker. 

The  War  went  on,  and  on,  and  on.  And  the  money 
continued  to  roll  in — a  flood  of  it.  Then,  one  afternoon, 
Eva,  in  town  on  shopping  bent,  entered  a  small,  exclusive, 
and  expensive  shop  on  Michigan  Avenue.  Exclusive, 
that  is,  in  price.  Eva's  weakness,  you  may  remember, 
was  hats.  She  was  seeking  a  hat  now.  She  described 
what  she  sought  with  a  languid  conciseness,  and  stood 
looking  about  her  after  the  saleswoman  had  vanished  in 
quest  of  it.  The  room  was  becomingly  rose-illumined 
and  somewhat  dim,  so  that  some  minutes  had  passed 
before  she  realized  that  a  man  seated  on  a  raspberry 
brocade  settee  not  five  feet  away — a  man  with  a  walking 
stick,  and  yellow  gloves,  and  tan  spats,  and  a  check  suit — 


THE  GAY  OLD  DOG  143 

was  her  brother  Jo.  From  him  Eva's  wild-eyed  glance 
leaped  to  the  woman  who  was  trying  on  hats  before  one 
of  the  many  long  mirrors.  She  was  seated,  and  a  sales- 
woman was  exclaiming  discreetly  at  her  elbow. 

Eva  turned  sharply  and  encountered  her  own  sales- 
woman returning,  hat-laden.  ''Not  to-day/'  she  gasped. 
"I'm  feeling  ill.  Suddenly."  And  almost  ran  from  the 
room. 

That  evening  she  told  Stell,  relating  her  news  in  that 
telephone  pidgin-English  devised  by  every  family  of 
married  sisters  as  protection  against  the  neighbors  and 
Central.  Translated,  it  ran  thus: 

"He  looked  straight  at  me.  My  dear,  I  thought  I'd  die ! 
But  at  least  he  had  sense  enough  not  to  speak.  She  was 
one  of  those  limp,  willowy  creatures  with  the  greediest 
eyes  that  she  tried  to  keep  softened  to  a  baby  stare,  and 
couldn't,  she  was  so  crazy  to  get  her  hands  on  those  hats. 
I  saw  it  all  in  one  awful  minute.  You  know  the  way  I 
do.  I  suppose  some  people  would  call  her  pretty ;  I  don't. 
And  her  color !  Well !  And  the  most  expensive-looking 
hats.  Aigrettes,  and  paradise,  and  feathers.  Not  one  of 
them  under  seventy-five.  Isn't  it  disgusting!  At  his 
age!  Suppose  Ethel  had  been  with  me!" 

The  next  time  it  was  Stell  who  saw  them.  In  a  restau- 
rant. She  said  it  spoiled  her  evening.  And  the  third 
time  it  was  Ethel.  She  was  one  of  the  guests  at  a  theater 
party  given  by  Nicky  Overton  II.  You  know.  The 
North  Shore  Overtons.  Lake  Forest.  They  came  in 
late,  and  occupied  the  entire  third  row  at  the  opening 
performance  of  "Believe  Me!"  And  Ethel  was  Nicky's 
partner.  She  was  glowing  like  a  rose.  When  the  lights 
went  up  after  the  first  act  Ethel  saw  that  her  Uncle  Jo 
was  seated  just  ahead  of  her  with  what  she  afterward 


144      THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

described  as  a  Blonde.  Then  her  uncle  had  turned 
around,  and,  seeing  her,  had  been  surprised  into  a  smile 
that  spread  genially  all  over  his  plump  and  rubicund  face. 
Then  he  had  turned  to  face  forward  again,  quickly. 

"Who's  the  old  bird?"  Nicky  had  asked.  Ethel  had 
pretended  not  to  hear,  so  he  had  asked  again. 

"My  uncle,"  Ethel  answered,  and  flushed  all  over  her 
delicate  face,  and  down  to  her  throat.  Nicky  had  looked 
at  the  Blonde,  and  his  eyebrows  had  gone  up  ever  so 
slightly. 

It  spoiled  Ethel's  evening.  More  than  that,  as  she  told 
her  mother  of  it  later,  weeping,  she  declared  it  had 
spoiled  her  life. 

Eva  talked  it  over  with  her  husband  in  that  intimate, 
kimonoed  hour  that  precedes  bedtime.  She  gesticulated 
heatedly  with  her  hair  brush. 

"It's  disgusting,  that's  what  it  is.  Perfectly  disgusting. 
There's  no  fool  like  an  old  fool.  Imagine!  A  creature 
like  that.  At  his  time  of  life." 

There  exists  a  strange  and  loyal  kinship  among  men. 
"Well,  I  don't  know,"  Ben  said  now,  and  even  grinned 
a  little.  "I  suppose  a  boy's  got  to  sow  his  wild  oats 
some  time." 

"Don't  be  any  more  vulgar  than  you  can  help,"  Eva 
retorted.  "And  I  think  you  know,  as  well  as  I,  what  it 
means  to  have  that  Overton  boy  interested  in  Ethel." 

"If  he's  interested  in  her,"  Ben  blundered,  "I  guess  the 
fact  that  Ethel's  uncle  went  to  the  theater  with  some  one 
who  wasn't  Ethel's  aunt  won't  cause  a  shudder  to  run  up 
and  down  his  frail  young  frame,  will  it?" 

"All  right,"  Eva  had  retorted.  "If  you're  not  man 
enough  to  stop  it,  I'll  have  to,  that's  all.  I'm  going  up 
there  with  Stell  this  week." 


THE  GAY  OLD  DOG  145 

They  did  not  notify  Jo  of  their  coming.  Eva  tele- 
phoned his  apartment  when  she  knew  he  would  be  out, 
and  asked  his  man  if  he  expected  his  master  home  to 
dinner  that  evening.  The  man  had  said  yes.  E^a  ar- 
ranged to  meet  Stell  in  town.  They  would  drive  to  Jo's 
apartment  together,  and  wait  for  him  there. 

When  she  reached  the  city  Eva  found  turmoil  there. 
The  first  of  the  American  troops  to  be  sent  to  France 
were  leaving.  Michigan  Boulevard  was  a  billowing, 
surging  mass:  Flags,  pennants,  bands,  crowds.  All  the 
elements  that  make  for  demonstration.  And  over  the 
whole — quiet.  No  holiday  crowd,  this.  A  solid,  deter- 
mined mass  of  people  waiting  patient  hours  to  see  the 
khaki-clads  go  by.  Three  years  of  indefatigable  reading 
had  brought  them  to  a  clear  knowledge  of  what  these  boys 
were  going  to. 

"Isn't  it  dreadful!"  Stell  gasped. 

"Nicky  Overton's  only  nineteen,  thank  goodness." 

Their  car  was  caught  in  the  jam.  When  they  moved 
at  all  it  was  by  inches.  When  at  last  they  reached  Jo's 
apartment  they  were  flushed,  nervous,  apprehensive.  But 
he  had  not  yet  come  in.  So  they  waited. 

No,  they  were  not  staying  to  dinner  with  their  brother, 
they  told  the  relieved  houseman.  Jo's  home  has  already 
been  described  to  you.  Stell  and  Eva,  sunk  in  rose- 
colored  cushions,  viewed  it  with  disgust,  and  some  mirth. 
They  rather  avoided  each  other's  eyes. 

"Carrie  ought  to  be  here,"  Eva  said.  They  both  smiled 
at  the  thought  of  the  austere  Carrie  in  the  midst  of  those 
rosy  cushions,  and  hangings,  and  lamps.  Stell  rose  and 
began  to  walk  about,  restlessly.  She  picked  up  a  vase 
and  laid  it  down ;  straightened  a  picture.  Eva  got  up,  too, 


146  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

and  wandered  into  the  hall.  She  stood  there  a  moment, 
listening.  Then  she  turned  and  passed  into  Jo's  bedroom. 
And  there  you  knew  Jo  for  what  he  was. 

This  room  was  as  bare  as  the  other  had  been  ornate. 
It  was  Jo,  the  clean-minded  and  simple-hearted,  in  revolt 
against  the  cloying  luxury  with  which  he  had  surrounded 
himself.  The  bedroom,  of  all  rooms  in  any  house,  reflects 
the  personality  of  its  occupant.  True,  the  actual  furniture 
was  paneled,  cupid-surmounted,  and  ridiculous.  It  had 
been  the  fruit  of  Jo's  first  orgy  of  the  senses.  But  now 
it  stood  out  in  that  stark  little  room  with  an  air  as  incon- 
gruous and  ashamed  as  that  of  a  pink  tarleton  danseuse 
who  finds  herself  in  a  monk's  cell.  None  of  those  wall- 
pictures  with  which  bachelor  bedrooms  are  reputed  to  be 
hung.  No  satin  slippers.  No  scented  notes.  Two  plain- 
backed  military  brushes  on  the  chiffonier  (and  he  so 
nearly  hairless!).  A  little  orderly  stack  of  books  on  the 
table  near  the  bed.  Eva  fingered  their  titles  and  gave  a 
little  gasp.  One  of  them  was  on  gardening.  "Well,  of 
all  things!"  exclaimed  Stell.  A  book  on  the  War,  by  an 
Englishman.  A  detective  story  of  the  lurid  type  that  lulls 
us  to  sleep.  His  shoes  ranged  in  a  careful  row  in  the 
closet,  with  shoe-trees  in  every  one  of  them.  There  was 
something  speaking  about  them.  They  looked  so  human. 
Eva  shut  the  door  on  them,  quickly.  Some  bottles  on 
the  dresser.  A  jar  of  pomade.  An  ointment  such  as  a 
man  uses  who  is  growing  bald  and  is  panic-stricken  too 
late.  An  insurance  calendar  on  the  wall.  Some  rhubarb- 
and-soda  mixture  on  the  shelf  in  the  bathroom,  and  a 
little  box  of  pepsin  tablets. 

"Eats  all  kinds  of  things  at  all  hours  of  the  night," 
Eva  said,  and  wandered  out  into  the  rose-colored  front 
room  again  with  the  air  of  one  who  is  chagrined  at  her 


THE  GAY  OLD  DOG  147 

failure  to  find  what  she  has  sought.  Stell  followed  her, 
furtively. 

" Where  do  you  suppose  he  can  be?"  she  demanded. 
"It's—"  she  glanced  at  her  wrist,  "why,  it's  after  six!" 

And  then  there  was  a  little  click.  The  two  women  sat 
up,  tense.  The  door  opened.  Jo  came  in.  He  blinked 
a  little.  The  two  women  in  the  rosy  room  stood  up. 

"Why— Eve!  Why,  Babe!  Well!  Why  didn't  you 
let  me  know?" 

"We  were  just  about  to  leave.  We  thought  you  weren't 
coming  home." 

Jo  came  in,  slowly.  "I  was  in  the  jam  on  Michigan, 
watching  the  boys  go  by."  He  sat  down,  heavily.  The 
light  from  the  window  fell  on  him.  And  you  saw  that 
his  eyes  were  red. 

And  you'll  have  to  learn  why.  He  had  found  himself 
one  of  the  thousands  in  the  jam  on  Michigan  Avenue,  as 
he  said.  He  had  a  place  near  the  curb,  where  his  big 
frame  shut  off  the  view  of  the  unfortunates  behind  him. 
He  waited  with  the  placid  interest  of  one  who  has  sub- 
scribed to  all  the  funds  and  societies  to  which  a  pros- 
perous, middle-aged  business  man  is  called  upon  to 
subscribe  in  war  time.  Then,  just  as  he  was  about  to 
leave,  impatient  at  the  delay,  the  crowd  had  cried,  with  a 
queer  dramatic,  exultant  note  in  its  voice,  "Here  they 
come!  Here  come  the  boys!" 

Just  at  that  moment  two  little,  futile,  frenzied  fists 
began  to  beat  a  m'ad  tattoo  on  Jo  Hertz's  broad  back. 
Jo  tried  to  turn  in  the  crowd,  all  indignant  resentment. 
"Say,  looka  here !" 

The  little  fists  kept  up  their  frantic  beating  and  pushing. 
And  a  voice — a  choked,  high  little  voice — cried,  "Let  me 


148  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

by!  I  can't  see!  You  man,  you!  You  big  fat  man! 
My  boy's  going  by — to  war — and  I  can't  see !  Let  me 
by!" 

Jo  scrooged  around,  still  keeping  his  place.  He  looked 
down.  And  upturned  to  him  in  agonized  appeal  was  the 
face  of  little  Emily.  They  stared  at  each  other  for  what 
seemed  a  long,  long  time.  It  was.  really  only  the  fraction 
of  a  second.  Then  Jo  put  one  great  arm  firmly  around 
Emily's  waist  and  swung  her  around  in  front  of  him. 
His  great  bulk  protected  her.  Emily  was  clinging  to  his 
hand.  She  was  breathing  rapidly,  as  if  she  had  been 
running.  Her  eyes  were  straining  up  the  street. 

"Why,  Emily,  how  in  the  world !" 

"I  ran  away.  Fred  didn't  want  me  to  come.  He  said 
it  would  excite  me  too  much." 

"Fred?" 

"My  husband.  He  made  me  promise  to  say  good-by 
to  Jo  at  home." 

"Jo?" 

"Jo's  my  boy.  And  he's  going  to  war.  So  I  ran  away. 
I  had  to  see  him.  I  had  to  see  him  go." 

She  was  dry-eyed.  Her  gaze  was  straining  up  the 
street. 

"Why,  sure,"  said  Jo.  *"Of  course  you  want  to  see 
him."  And  then  the  crowd  gave  a  great  roar.  There 
came  over  Jo  a  feeling  of  weakness.  He  was  trembling. 
The  boys  went  marching  by. 

"There  he  is,"  Emily  shrilled,  above  the  din.  "There 

he  is!  There  he  is!  There  he "  And  waved  a 

futile  little  hand.  It  wasn't  so  much  a  wave  as  a  clutch- 
ing. A  clutching  after  something  beyond  her  reach. 

"Which  one?     Which  one,  Emily?" 


THfe  GAY  OLD  DOG  149 

"The  handsome  one.  The  handsome  one.  There!" 
Her  voice  quavered  and  died. 

Jo  put  a  steady  hand  on  her  shoulder.  "Point  him 
out,"  he  commanded.  "Show  me."  And  the  next  instant, 
"Never  mind.  I  see  him." 

Somehow,  miraculously,  he  had  picked  him  from  among 
the  hundreds.  Had  picked  him  as  surely  as  his  own 
father  might  have.  It  was  Emily's  boy.  He  was  march- 
ing by,  rather  stiffly.  He  was  nineteen,  and  fun-loving, 
and  he  had  a  girl,  and  he  didn't  particularly  want  to  go 
to  France  and — to  go  to  France.  But  more  than  he  had 
hated  going,  he  had  hated  not  to  go.  So  he  marched  by, 
looking  straight  ahead,  his  jaw  set  so  that  his  chin  stuck 
out  just  a  little.  Emily's  boy. 

Jo  looked  at  him,  and  his  face  flushed  purple.  His 
eyes,  the  hard-boiled  eyes  of  a  loop-hound,  took  on  the 
look  of  a  sad  old  man.  And  suddenly  he  was  no  longer 
Jo,  the  sport;  old  J.  Hertz,  the  gay  dog.  He  was  Jo 
Hertz,  thirty,  in  love  with  life,  in  love  with  Emily,  and 
with  the  stinging  blood  of  young  manhood  coursing 
through  his  veins. 

Another  minute  and  the  boy  had  passed  on  up  the 
broad  street — the  fine,  flag-bedecked  street — just  one  of 
a  hundred  service-hats  bobbing  in  rhythmic  motion  like 
sandy  waves  lapping  a  shore  and  flowing  on. 

Then  he  disappeared  altogether. 

Emily  was  clinging  to  Jo.  She  was  mumbling  some- 
thing over  and  over.  "I  can't.  I  can't.  Don't  ask  me 
to.  I  can't  let  him  go.  Like  that.  I  can't." 

Jo  said  a  queer  thing. 

"Why,  Emily!  We  wouldn't  have  him  stay  home, 
would  we?  We  wouldn't  want  him  to  do  anything  dif- 


150  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

ferent,  would  we?     Not  our  boy.     I'm  glad  he  volun- 
teered.    I'm  proud  of  him.     So  are  you,  glad." 

Little  by  little  he  quieted  her.  He  took  her  to  the  car 
that  was  waiting,  a  worried  chauffeur  in  charge.  They 
said  good-by,  awkwardly.  Emily's  face  was  a  red, 
swollen  mass. 

So  it  was  that  when  Jo  entered  his  own  hallway  half 
an  hour  later  he  blinked,  dazedly,  and  when  the  light  from 
the  window  fell  on  him  you  saw  that  his  eyes  were  red. 

Eva  was  not  one  to  beat  about  the  bush.  She  sat 
forward  in  her  chair,  clutching  her  bag  rather  nervously. 

"Now,  look  here,  Jo.  Stell  and  I  are  here  for  a  reason. 
We're  here  to  tell  you  that  this  thing's  got  to  stop." 

"Thing?     Stop?" 

"You  know  very  well  what  I  mean.  You  saw  me  at 
the  milliner's  that  day.  A.nd  night  before  last,  Ethel. 
We're  all  disgusted.  If  you  must  go  about  with  people 
like  that,  please  have  some  sense  of  decency." 

Something  gathering  in  Jo's  face  should  have  warned 
her.  But  he  was  slumped  down  in  his  chair  in  such  a 
huddle,  and  he  looked  so  old  and  fat  that  she  did  not 
heed  it.  She  went  on.  "You've  got  us  to  consider. 
Your  sisters.  And  your  nieces.  Not  to  speak  of  your 
own " 

But  he  got  to  his  feet  then,  shaking,  and  at  what  she 
saw  on  his  face  even  Eva  faltered  and  stopped.  It  wasn't 
at  all  the  face  of  a  fat,  middle-aged  sport.  It  was  a  face 
Jovian,  terrible. 

"You  !"  he  began,  low-voiced,  ominous.  "You  !"  He 
raised  a  great  fist  high.  "You  two  murderers!  You 
didn't  consider  me,  twenty  years  ago.  You  come  to  me 
with  talk  like  that.  Where's  my  boy !  You  killed  him, 


THE  GAY  OLD  DOG  151 

you  two,  twenty  years  ago.  And  now  he  belongs  to 
somebody  else.  Where's  my  son  that  should  have  gone 
marching  by  to-day?"  He  flung  his  arms  out  in  a  great 
gesture  of  longing.  The  red  veins  stood  out  on  his  fore- 
head. "Where's  my  son?  Answer  me  that,  you  two 
selfish,  miserable  women.  Where's  my  son?"  Then,  as 
they  huddled  together,  frightened,  wild-eyed:  "Out  of 
my  house!  Out  of  my  house!  Before  I  hurt  you!" 

They  fled,  terrified.     The  door  banged  behind  them. 

Jo  stood,  shaking,  in  the  center  of  the  room.  Then  he 
reached  for  a  chair,  gropingly,  and  sat  down.  He  passed 
one  moist,  flabby  hand  over  his  forehead  and  it  came 
away  wet.  The  telephone  rang.  He  sat  still.  It 
sounded  far  away  and  unimportant,  like  something  for- 
gotten. I  think  he  did  not  even  hear  it  with  his  conscious 
ear.  But  it  rang  and  rang  insistently.  Jo  liked  to  answer 
his  telephone  when  at  home. 

"Hello  !"     He  knew  instantly  the  voice  at  the  other  end. 

"That  you,  Jo?"  it  said. 

"Yes." 

"How's  my  boy?" 

"I'm— all  right." 

"Listen,  Jo.  The  crowd's  coming  over  to-night.  I've 
fixed  up  a  little  poker  game  for  you.  Just  eight  of  us." 

"I  can't  come  to-night,  Gert." 

"Can't!     Why  not?" 

"I'm  not  feeling  so  good." 

"You  just  said  you  were  all  right." 

"I  am  all  right.     Just  kind  of  tired." 

The  voice  took  on  a  cooing  note.  "Is  my  Joey  tired? 
Then  he  shall  be  all  comfy  on  the  sofa,  and  he  doesn't 
need  to  play  if  he  doesn't  want  to.  No,  sir." 


152  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

Jo  stood  staring  at  the  black  mouth-piece  of  the  tele- 
phone. He  was  seeing  a  procession  go  marching  by. 
Boys,  hundreds  of  boys,  in  khaki. 

"Hello!  Hello!"  the  voice  took  on  an  anxious  note. 
"Are  you  there?" 

"Yes,"  wearily. 

"Jo,  there's  something  the  matter.  You're  sick.  I'm 
coming  right  over." 

"No !" 

"Why  not?  You  sound  as  if  you'd  been  sleeping. 
Look  here " 

"Leave  me  alone !"  cried  Jo,  suddenly,  and  the  receiver 
clacked  onto  the  hook.  "Leave  me  alone.  Leave  me 
alone."  Long  after  the  connection  had  been  broken. 

He  stood  staring  at  the  instrument  with  unseeing  eyes. 
Then  he  turned  and  walked  into  the  front  room.  All  the 
light  had  gone  out  of  it.  Dusk  had  come  on.  All  the 
light  had  gone  out  of  everything.  The  zest  had  gone  out 
of  life.  The  game  was  over — the  game  he  had  been 
playing  against  loneliness  and  disappointment.  And  .he 
was  just  a  tired  old  man.  A  lonely,  tired  old  man  in  a 
ridiculous,  rose-colored  room  that  had  grown,  all  of  a 
sudden,  drab. 


CREATIVE  CRITICISM  OF  A  STORY  OF 
CHARACTER 

"A   GAY  OLD  DOG,"  BY  EDNA   FERBER 

1.  Character. 

Edna  Ferber  knew  her  leading  character  well  before 
she  ever  touched  her  pen  to  paper  to  write  the  story.  She 
must  have  worked  out  an  elaborate  dossier  of  the  minutest 
phases  of  his  life,  whether  she  ever  put  it  down  on  paper 
or  not.  As  a  matter  of  fact  a  large  part  of  this  dossier 
appears  in  the  first  part  of  the  story.  This  character  is 
revealed  as  a  common  middle-class  man  of  exceedingly 
mediocre  qualities.  And  yet  we  become  so  well  acquainted 
with  him  that  we  become  deeply  interested  in  him  before 
the  story  is  finished. 

2.  Complication. 

The  complication  was  selected  to  fit  the  character — 
or  rather  was  a  logical  outgrowth  of  events  that  almost 
inevitably  would  happen  to  such  a  character.  Stated  in 
the  form  of  problem  and  solution  it  might  read,  How  can 
a  man,  dominated  by  his  environment,  with  such  lack  of 
initiative,  rise  superior  to  the  events  and  environment 
which  surrounded  him?. 

This  story  begins  with  a  death -bed  promise  which  in- 
volves Situation  23  (Self-sacrifice  for  kinsmen).  This 
soon  transforms  itself  into  Situation  n  (Obstacles  to 
love),  which  remains  dominant  until  it  reaches  a  climax 
in  Situation  4  ( Revolt ) .  In  the  meanwhile  another  thread 
of  action,  less  vital  but  more  conspicuous,  leads  us  by  way 

153 


154  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

of  business  adventure  through  Situations  16  and  19  (In 
the  clutches  of  misfortune,  and  Obtaining). 

3.  Setting. 

The  setting  was  the  city  of  Chicago.  Edna  Ferber 
knows  it  like  a  book.  The  detached  touches  of  local 
color  are  excellent,  and  might  serve  as  models  for  any 
beginner. 

4.  Theme. 

The  theme  may  have  been  as  much  in  mind  as  the 
character  when  the  story  was  first  conceived,  but  the 
character  very  shortly  assumed  first  place  as  the  story 
progressed. 

5.  Movement. 

This  story  is  a  good  example  of  cumulative  action. 

6.  Viewpoint. 

The  author  uses  the  shifting  viewpoint.  Desiring  to 
present  the  life  and  the  personality  of  Jo  Hertz  from 
all  angles — a  life  affected  by  many  characters  and 
incidents — Miss  Ferber  chose  not  to  be  circumscribed  by 
the  usual  limitations  of  the  short-story  writer.  But  while 
she,  as  in  this  case,  was  successful,  the  novice  had  better 
keep  to  a  narrower  trail.  Contrast  the  viewpoint  used 
in  this  story  with  the  single  viewpoint  method  in  "The 
Necklace." 

7.  Where  shall  I  begin? 

Miss  Ferber  opens  her  story  with  a  short  description  of 
the  Loop.  This  is  put  there  merely  to  serve  as  an  aid  in 
the  description  of  Jo  Hertz,  the  loop-hound,  the  character 
about  whom  the  story  is  to  be  woven.  It  would  be  interest- 


CRITICISM  OF  A  STORY  OF  CHARACTER    155 

ing  here,  again,  to  compare  the  opening  with  that  of  "The 
Necklace,"  another  character  story. 

8.  How  many  episodes  shall  I  have  and  how  shall  I  con- 
nect them? 

Edna  Ferber  has  done  in  this  story  what  Maupassant 
has  done  in  "The  Necklace" — something  which  I  should 
caution  all  students  not  to  attempt.  She  has  introduced 
a  great  number  of  episodes.  Jo  Hertz  is  shown  as  the 
creature  of  circumstances — as  was  Mathilde  Loisel — 
hence  a  sufficient  number  of  circumstances  must  be  given 
to  show  this  character  in  all  his  phases.  It  is  in  the 
handling  of  these  transitions  that  Miss  Ferber  shows 
unusual  skill.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  long  lapses  of 
time  often  occur  between  intervening  events  she  weaves 
the  events  together  so  that  it  is  only  with  difficulty  that 
we  can  see  the  breaks.  Careful  study  should  be  made 
of  the  sentences  which  serve  as  threads  to  weave  the 
various  episodes  together. 

9.  How  can  I  make  my  story  seem  plausible? 

Here  again  Miss  Ferber  shows  excellent  craftsmanship. 

After  accepting  the  early  version  of  Jo — the  downtrodden 

and  imposed  upon — a  necessary  wrench  must  be  made 

upon  the  reader's  credulity  at  Jo's  sudden  awakening  and 

assumption  of  leadership,  his   idealism  and  strength   of 

purpose  at  the  end — unless  the  road  is  carefully  prepared. 

The  following  situations  help  to  prepare  for  the  climax: 

Jo  is  in  the  downtrodden  harness  business — which 

later,  because  of  the  war,  becomes  a  source  of  great 

wealth. 

Jo  is  shown  in  love  with  Emily,  but  failing  to  have 
initiative  or  money  enough  to  marry  her.  But  his 
very  failure  leaves  a  raw  spot  on  his  soul  which  never 


156  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

quite  heals  over,  and  which  ultimately  precipitates  the 
emotional  climax. 

10.  How  can  I  increase  the  suspense? 

The  interest  the  reader  is  made  to  feel  in  Jo  Hertz — 
not  the  thrill  of  any  dramatic  incidents — is  the  means  the 
writer  uses  to  increase  our  suspense.  Moreover,  having 
seen  Jo  downtrodden  so  long,  the  reader  begins  to  hope 
against  hope  for  just  such  a  climax  as  finally  occurs. 

11.  How  can  I  make  an  effective  climax? 

The  climax  deserves  study.  Jo's  speech  to  his  sisters, 
which  reveals  his  transformation,  is  a  remarkable  example 
of  emotional  climax.  Such  climaxes  when  well  handled 
constitute  the  best  climaxes  in  literature.  "The  door 
banged."  A  less  realistic  writer  would  have  closed  the 
story  here.  Which  method  of  ending  stories  do  you 
prefer;  that  of  Maupassant  or  of  Ferber? 


THE  COP  AND  THE  ANTHEM  * 
"o.  HENRY"  (s.  w.  PORTER). 

On  his  bench  in  Madison  Square,  Soapy  moved  un- 
easily. When  wild  geese  honk  high  of  nights,  and  when 
women  without  sealskin  coats  grow  kind  to  their  hus- 
bands, and  when  Soap  movco  unnnnily  nn  hi?  hcashjn 


you  may  know  that  winter  is  near  at  hand. 

A  dead  leaf  fell  in  Soapy's  lap.  That  was  Jack  Frost's 
card.  Jack  is  kind  to  the  regular  denizens  of  Madison 
Square,  and  gives  fair  warning  of  his  annual  call.  At  the 
corners  of  four  streets  he  hands  his  pasteboard  to  the 
North  Wind,  footman  of  the  mansion  of  All  Outdoors, 
so  that  the  inhabitants  thereof  may  make  ready. 

Soapy's  mind  became  eegniz&nt  of  the  fact  that  the 
time  had  come  for  him  to  resolve  himself  into  a  singular 
Committee  ,of  Ways  and  Means  /to  provide  against  the 
coming  rjgnr.  N  And  tlieicfoic  he-moved  tmeasily  on  his 
bench. 

The  hibernatorial  ambitions  of  Soapy  were  not  of  the 
highest.  In  them  there  were  no  considerations  of  Medi- 
terranean rriii"r~V|rif  nnpnrifie  Sntithnrn-Skies  or  Drifting 
in  the  Vesuvian  Kay.  Three  months  on  the  Island  was 
what  his  soul  craved;  Three  months  of  assured  board  and 
bed  and  congenial  company,  ^s^fems-Saeea^^d^Mu^, 
^SPfc8.*  seemed  to  ^Soapv  the  essence  of  things  desirable. 

For  years  the  hospitable  Blackwell's  had  been  his  winter 
quarters.  Just  as  his  more  foffunate  fellow  New  Yorkers 

*  Copyright,   1910,  by  Doubleday,  Page  and  Company. 

157 


158  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

had  bought  their  tickets  to  Palm  Beach  and  the  Riviera 
each  winter,  so  Soapy  had  made  his  humbler  arrangements 
for  his  annual  W6gifa  to  the  Island.  And  nowthe  time 
was  come.  QnTK^previou«  night  t^iree  5i)]^^  news- 
papers, distributed  beneath  hisVpat,  abfyit  his  ankles^nd 
over  his  lap,  hadNfeileck  to  repuHse  the  Oold  ak  roe  sltept 

on    his    hprirh.  nmr    flnn    ^ 


So  the  Island  loomed  big  and  timely  in  Soapy 's 
mmd.  VHe  scorned  the  provisions  macte  in  tnNe  name  of 
charity  if  or  the  city's\deplmdente.  Iti^Soapy^opmion 
^tl^^aVN^asN^or*  >b^iigV ^arX^hlkrHhi^y.  There 
was  an  endless  round  of  institutions,  municipal  and  elee- 
jaos^naty,  on  which  he  might  set  out  and  receive  lodging 
and  food  accordant  with  the  simple  life.  But  to  one  of 
Soapy's  proud  spirit  the  gifts  of  charity  are  encumbered. 
If  not  in  coin  you  must  pay  in  humiliation  of  spirit  for 
every  benefit  received  at  the  hands  of  philanthropy.  As 
Caesar  had  his  Brutus,  every  bed  of  charity  must  have  its 
toll  of  a  bath,  every  loaf  of  bread  its  compensation  of  a 
private  and  personal  inquisition.  Wherefore  it  is  better 
to  be  a  guest  of  the  law,  which,  though  conducted  by 
rules,  does  not  meddle  unduly  with  a  gentleman's  private 
affairs. 

Soapy,  having  decided  to  go  to  the  Island,  at  once  set 
about  accomplishing  his  desire.  There  were  many  easy 
ways  of  doing  this.  The  pleasantest  was  to  dine  luxuri- 
ously at  some  expensive  restaurant ;  and  then,  after  de- 
claring insolvency-,  be  handed  over  quietly  and  without 
uproar  to  a  policeman.  An  accommodating  magistrate 
would  do  the  rest. 

Soapy  left  his  bench  and  strolled  out  of  the  square  and 
across  the  level  sea  of  asphalt,  where  Broadway  and  Fifth 
Avenue  flow  together.  Up  Broadway  he  turned,  and 


THE  COP  AND  THE  ANTHEM  159 


halted  at  a  glittering  cafe,  «*k*»™  -**•*  gati-w 
nightly/tho  ohoiGGOt  pi'oduelj  u£  LliL  guyu,  UlK  silkworm 
«ml  Hit  piutuplajn* 

Soapy  had  confidence  in  himself  from  the  lowest  button 
of  his  vest  upward.  He  was  shaven,  and  his  coat  was 
decent  and  his  neat  black,  ready-tied  four-in-hand  had 
been  presented  to  him  by  a  lady  missionary  on  Thanks- 
giving Day.  If  he  could  reach  a  table  in  the  restaurant 
unsuspected,  success  would  be  his.  The  portion  of  him 
that  would  show  above  the  table  would  raise  no  doubt  in 
the  waitePs  mind.  A  roasted  roaM&Fd  duck, 
-Sd3£y,  would  be  about  the  thing  —  with  a  bottle  of 
and  then  Camembert,  a  demi-tasse  and  a  cigar.  One 
dollar  for  the,  cigar  would  be  enough.  The  total)  would 
not  be  so  high|  as  to  call  forth  any  supreme  manifestation 
of  revenge  from  the  cafe  management  ;  and  yet  the  meat 
would  leave  him  rilled  and  happy  for  the  journey  to  his 
winter  refuge. 

But  as  Soapy  set  foot  inside  the  restaurant  door  the 
head  waiter's  eye  fell  upon  his  frayed  trousers  and 
decadent  shoes.  Strong  and  ready  hands  turned  him 
about  and  conveyed  him  in  silence  and  haste  to  the  side- 
walk and  averted  the  ignoble  fate  of  the  menaced-  mallard. 

Soapy  turned  off  Broadway.  It  seemed  that  his  route 
to  the  coveted  Island  was  not  to  be  an  epicurean  <?one. 
Some  other  way  of-eftteptn^-limbo  must  be  thought  of. 

At  a  corner  of  Sixth  Avenue  electric  lights  and  cun- 
ningly displayed  wares  behind  plate-glass  made  a  shop 
window  conspicuous.  Soapy  took  a  cobblestone  and 
dashed  it  through  the  glass.  People  came  running  around 
the  corner,  a  policeman  in  the  lead.  Soapy  stood  still, 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  smiled  at  the  sight  of 
brass  buttons. 


160  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

"Where's  the  man  that  done  that?"  inquired  the  officer 


"Don't  you  figure  out  that  I  might  have  had  something 
to  do  with  it?"  said  Soapy,  not  withont-sarcasm^  but 
-£rieTTdly,  as  one  who  fleets  •goed-4ortune. 

The  policeman's  mind  refused  to  accept  Soapy  even 
as  a  clue.  Men  who  smash  windows  do  not  remain  to 
parley  with  the  law's  minions.  They  take  to  their  heels. 
The  policeman  saw  a  man  half-way  down  the  block  run- 
ning to  catch  a  car.  With  drawn  club  he  joined  in  the 
pursuit.  Soapy,  with  disgust  in  his  heart,  loafed  along, 
twice  unsuccessful. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  was  a  restaurant  of 
no  great  pretensions.  It  catered  to  large  appetites  and 
modest  purses.  Its  crockery  and  atmosphere  were  thick  ; 
its  soup  and  napery  thin.  Into  this  place  Soapy  took  his 
accusive  shoes  and  telltale  trousers  without  challenge.  At 
a  table  he  sat  and  consumed  beefsteak,  flapjacks,  dough- 
nuts and  pie.  And  then  to  the  waiter  he  betrayed  the 
fact  that  the  minutest  coin  and  himself  were  strangers. 

"Now,  get  busy  and  call  a  cop,"  said  Soapy.  "And 
don't  keep  a  gentleman  waiting." 

"No  cop  for  youse,"  said  the  waiter,  with  a  voice  like 
butter  cakes  and  an  eye  like  the  cherry  in  a  Manhattan 
cocktail.  "Hey,  Con!"/ 

Neatly  upon  his  left  ear  on  the  callous  pavement  two 
waiters  pitched  Soapy.  He  arose,  joint  by  joint,  as  a 
carpenter's  rule  ./(pens,  and  beat  the  dust  from  his  clothes. 
Arrest  seemed  but  a  rosy  dream.  The  Island  seemed  very 
far  away.  /A  policeman  who  stood  before  a  drug  store 
two  doors  away  laughed  and  walked  down  the  street. 
******* 

A  sudden  fear  seized  Soapy  that  some  dreadful  enchant- 


THE  COP  AND  THE  ANTHEM  161 

ment  had  rendered  him  immune^  to 'arrest.  The  thought 
brought  a  little  of  panic  upon  it,  and  when  he  came  upon 
another  policeman  lounging  grandly  in  front  of  a  tran- 
splendent theater  he  caught  at  the  immediate  straw  of 
"disorderly  conduct." 

On  the  sidewalk  Soapy  began  to  yell  drunken  gibberish 
at  the  top  of  his  harsh  voice.  He  danced,  howled,  raved 
and  otherwise  disturbed  the  welkin. 

The  policeman  twirled  his  club,  turned  his  back  to  Soapy 
and  remarked  to  a  citizen : 

"  'Tis  one  of  them  Yale  lads  celebratin'  the  goose  egg 
they  give  to  Hartford  College.  Noisy;  but  no  harm. 
We've  instructions  to  lave  them  be." 

Disconsolate,  Soapy  ceased  his  unavailing  racket. 
Would  never  a  policeman  lay  hands  on  him?  In  his 
fancy  the  Island  seemed  an  unattainable  Arcadia.  He 
buttoned  his  thin  coat  against  the  chilling  wind. 

In  a  cigar  store  he  saw  a  well-dressed  man  lighting  a 
cigar  at  a  swinging  light.  His  silk  umbrella  he  had  set 
by  the  door  on  entering.  Soapy  stepped  inside,  secured 
the  umbrella  and  sauntered  off  with  it  slowly.  The  man 
at  the  cigar  light  followed  hastily. 

"My  umbrella,"  he  said,  sternly. 

"Oh,  is  it?"  sneered  Soapy,  adding  insult  to  petit 
larceny.  "Well,  why  don't  you  call  a  policeman?  I 
took  it.  Your  umbrella!  Why  don't  you  call  a  cop? 
There  stands  one  on  the  corner." 

•^sThe  umbrella  owner  slowed  his  steps.  Soapy  did  like- 
f  wise,  with  a  presentiment  that  luck  would  again  run 
V^against  him^(jhe  policeman  looked  at  the  two  curiously^ 

"Of  course,  said  the  umbrella  man — "that  is — well, 
you  know  how  these  mistakes  occur — I — if  it's  your 
umbrella  I  hope  you'll  excuse  me — I  picked  it  up  this 


162  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

morning  in  a  restaurant — If  you  recognize  it  as  yours, 
why — I  hope  you'll — 

"Of  course  it's  mine,"  said  Soapy,  viciously. 

The  ex-umbrella  man  retreated.  T^he  ^^ce 
rieti  to  assist  a  tall  blonde  m  an  -trpern  .clonk  across  the 
street  4n  front,,  of  a  street  car  that  was  approaching  two 
blocks  >way. 

Soapy  walked  eastward  through  a  street  damaged  by 
improvements.  He  hurled  the  umbrella  wxathfnlly  into 
an  excavation.  He  muttered  against  the  men  who  wear 
helmets  and  carry  clubs.  Because  he  wanted  to  fall  into 
their  clutches,  they  seemed  to  regard  him  as  a  king  who 
could  do  no  wrong. 

At  length  Soapy  reached  one  of  the  avenues  to  the 
east  where  the  glitter  and  turmoil  was  but  faint.  He  set 
hb  fnrc  Howa  thi"  toward/0  Madison  Square,  for  the 
homing  instinct  survives  even  when  the  home  is  a  park 
bench. 

But  on  an  unusually  quiet  corner  Soapy  came  to  a 
standstill.  Here  was  an  old  church,  quaint  and  rambling 
and  gabled.  "'Through  one  violet-stained  window  a  soft 
light  glowed,  where,  no  doubt,  the  organist  loitered  over 
the  keys,  making  sure  of  his  mastery  of  the  coming 
Sabbath  anthem.  For  there  drifted  out  to^Soapy's  ears 
sweet  music  that  caught  and  held  him  transfixed  against 
the  convolutions  of  the  iron  fence. 

The  moon  was  above,  lustrous  and  serene ;  vehicles  and 
pedestrians  were  few;  sparrows  twittered  sleepily  in  the 
eaves — for  a  little  while  the  scene  might  have  been  a 
country  churchyard.  And  the  anthem  that  the  organist 
played  cemented  Soapy  to  the  iron  fence,  for  he  had 
known  it  well  in  the  days  when  his  life  contained  such 


THE  COP  AND  THE  ANTHEM  163 

things  as  mothers  anH  <*fljrs  and  ambitions  and  friends 
and  immaculate  thoughts  and  collars. 

The  conjunction  of  Soapy 's  receptive  state^o4-  mind 
and  the  influences  about  the  old  church  wrou^it  a  sudden 
and  wonderful  change  in  his  soul.  He  viewed  with  swift 
horror  the  pit  into  which  he  had  tumbled,  the  degraded 
days,  unworthy  desires,  dead  hopes,  wj^aeke^-iiiGuttics 
and  base  motives  that  made  up  his  existence. 

And  also  in  a  moment  his  heart  responded  thrillingly 
to  this  novel  mood.  An  instantaneous  and  strong  impulse 
moved  him  to  battle  with  his  desperate  fate.  He  would 
pull  himself  out  of  the  mire;  he  would  make  a  man  of 
himself  again;  IIP  MinuliJ  LUUI.JLILI  [In.  ijil  LlUl  li  id  iul.i.u 
possession  of  him.  There  was  time;  he  was  compara- 
tively young  yet ;  he  would  resurrect  his  old  eager  ambi- 
tions and  pursue  them  without  faltering.  Those  solemn 
but  sweet  organ  notes  had  set  up  a  revolution  in  him. 
To-morrow  he  would  go  into  the  roaring  downtown  dis- 
trict and  find  work.  A  fur  importer  had  once  offered  him 
a  place  as  driver.  He  would  find  him  to-morrow  and  ask 
for  the  position.  He  would  be  somebody  in  the  world. 
He  would 

Soapy  felt  a  hand  laid  on  his  arm.     He  looked  quickly 
around  into  the  broad  face  of  a  policeman. 
— "What  are  you  doin'  here?"  asked  the  officer. 

"Nothin',"  said  Soapy. 

"Then  come  along,"  said  the  policeman. 

"Three  months  on  the  Island," -said  the^Magistratejfn 
the  Police  Court  I  the  next  morning.  S 


CREATIVE  CRITICISM  OF  A  COMPLICATION 
STORY 

"THE  COP  AND  THE  ANTHEM,"  BY  o.  HENRY 

1 .  Complication : 

O.  Henry  had  had  opportunity  in  his  eventful  life  to 
realize  just  what  a  problem  the  coming  of  winter  meant 
to  the  typical  vagabond  who  lived  by  his  legs  and  his  wits. 
It  occurred  to  him  to  have  one  of  these  denizens  of  the 
underworld  make  a  deliberate  attempt  to  select  one  of  the 
ostafp  penal  in|flflitinns  for  his  winter  headquarters.  This 
raised  "the" problem :  How  to  commit  a  crime  just  big 
enough  to  get  him  his  goal,  and  yet  not  so  big  as  to 
warrant  a  more  severe  and  dangerous  punishment.  As 
he  turned  this  plot  over  in  his  mind  O.  Henry  doubtless 
saw  the  opportunity  of  surprising  the  reader  by  having 
the  tramp  discard  his  ambition  at  the  end  for  a  higher 
purpose  in  life.  And  then,  with  typical  O.  Henry  in- 
genuity, he  gave  the  reader  a  second  surprise  by  getting  the 
tramp  into  the  penal  institution  after  all. 

This  story  begins  with  a  suggestion  of  Situation  16 
(In  the  clutches  of  misfortune),  receives  its  motivation 
from  Situation  5  (An  audacious  attempt),  finally  reaches 
by  a  surprise  route  Situation  27  (Remorse)  and  ends 
unexpectedly  in  Situations  26  and  2  (Erroneous  judg- 
ment and  Vengeance  pursuing  crime). 

2.  Character. 

For  his  purpose  O.  Henry  selected  a  typical  tramp,  the 
type  he  knew  from  A  to  Z.  No  doubt  he  knew  all  the 

164 


CRITICISM  OF  A  tOMPLICATION  STORY     165 

past  experiences  in  the  tramp's  life,  before  he  began  to 
write,  but  as  the  "plot  was  the  thing"  he  brought  little  or 
nothing  of  this  into  the  story.  As  it  is  a  typical  compli- 
cation story  the  character  might  have  been  an  automaton 
and  still  not  ruin  the  story.  However,  there  are  a  few 
little  touches  that  help  to  individualize  the  tramp  and 
make  him  a  little  different  from  the  whole  tribe  of  the 
underworld. 

x  3.     Setting. 

O.  Henry  selected  a  setting  to  fit  the  plot — naturally 
a  large  city  where  such  penal  institutions  are  found — a 
city  every  detail  of  which  was  familiar  to  O.  Henry  him- 
self. He  kept  the  reader  reminded  of  the  surroundings 
by  the  barest  amount  of  descriptive  matter  possible. 

4.     Theme. 

As  for  a  theme,  he  may  have  had  a  "moral"  in  mind 
from  the  very  start,  but  I  doubt  it.  If  he  did,  it  could 
be  summed  up  in  the  phrase,  "About  the  time  you  stop 
wanting  a  thing  you  are  sure  to  get  it." 

-  5.     Movement. 

As  befitting  the  rapid  succession  of  situations,  the 
humorous  theme,  and  the  light-weight  character  of  Soapy, 
the  action  should  be  rapid  from  the  start.  Note  the  verbs 
of  action  and  the  short  sentences  throughout.  O.  Henry 
employs  here  what  Oppenheim  would  probably  call  the 
"staccato  rhythm." 

6.     Viewpoint. 

For  the  sake  of  brevity  and  unity  O.  Henry  decided  not 
to  depart  far  away  from  the  person  of  the  chief  character. 
As  atmosphere  and  emotion  had  very  small  place  to  play, 
and  as  no  mystery  or  detective  element  need  enter  in,  he 


166  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

wisely  avoided  the  unnecessary  first  person.  He  saw  only 
what  Soapy  must  have  seen  or  what  a  man  looking  over 
his  shoulder  might  have  seen.  O.  Henry  lived  through 
Soapy's  experiences  with  him,  and  consequently  caused 
the  reader  to  follow  sympathetically  the  hero's  trials  and 
failures. 

7.  Where  shall  I  begin? 

"On  his  bench  in  Madison  Square,  Soapy  moved  un- 
easily." True  to  O.  Henry's  style  the  opening  sentence 
throws  the  reader  into  the  story.  In  a  few  short  para- 
graphs the  tone  is  set  and  the  interest  is  centered,  not 
upon  Soapy  as  a  character,  but  upon  his  plot  to  gain 
winter  quarters. 

8.  How  many  episodes  shall  I  have  and  how  shall  I 
connect  them? 

This  story  is  an  example,  as  are  "The  Last  Class"  and 
the"Sire  De  Maletroit'sDoor,"of  the  three  unities — action, 
time  and  place.  The  entire  action  of  the  story  takes  place 
within  a  few  hours.  A  rapid  succession  of  a  few  closely 
connected  episodes  composes  the  plot.  There  are,  roughly 
speaking,  seven  episodes,  and  as  they  are  very  briefly 
treated,  the  transition  from  one  to  the  other  is  worthy  of 
attention.  In  fact,  next  to  point  of  view  there  is  nothing 
that  causes  the  amateur  more  trouble  than  connecting  his 
episodes.  O.  Henry  makes  no  use  of  the  hackneyed,  trite 
phrases  so  useful  to  the  college  freshman :  "then,"  "next," 
"on  his  second  trial,"  "having  failed  in  this,"  etc.  Instead, 
he  says — almost  abruptly — "Soapy  left  his  bench  and 
strolled  out  of  the  Square,"  etc. ;  "A  sudden  fear  seized 
Soapy  that  some  dreadful  enchantment,"  etc. ;  "In  a  cigar 
store  he  saw  a  well-dressed  man  lighting  a  cigar";  "At 
length  Soapy  reached  one  of  the  avenues  to  the  east." 


CRITICISM  OF  A  COMPLICATION  STORY     167 

Perhaps  newspaper  writing  cultivates  skill  in  handling 
transitions.  At  any  rate  this  story  and  "The  Gay  Old 
Dog"  of  Edna  Ferber  are  models  of  economy  in  this 
matter. 

9.  How  can  I  make  my  story  seem  plausible? 

When  Soapy,  after  his  unsuccessful  campaign,  returns 
to  his  park  bench  home,  it  is  the  beginning  of  preparation 
for  the  climax.  In  the  next  few  paragraphs — the  short 
description  of  the  churchyard,  the  hearing  of  the  anthem 
by  Soapy  and  his  reflections — the  stage  is  carefully  pre- 
pared by  O.  Henry  for  the  climax.  As  one  does  not  read 
a  story  of  this  type  in  a  too-critical  mood  the  climax 
appears  logical  and  plausible  enough  to  the  average  reader. 
The  longer  the  critical  reader  ponders  over  it  the  larger 
looms  the  question :  Would  Soapy,  after  all  these  years,  be 
susceptible  to  such  emotions  at  sound  of  a  church  organ? 
And  would  a  cop  arrest  a  man  for  hanging  about  a 
church  ? 

10.  How  can  I  increase  the  suspense? 

O.  Henry  depends  only  to  a  very  slight  degree  upon 
our  personal  interest  in  Soapy.  On  the  other  hand,  he 
achieves  suspense  to  a  very  striking  extent  by  means  of 
the  rapidly  occurring  succession  of  episodes  and  Soapy 's 
constant  failures  to  gain  his  end  until  his  success  seems 
well  nigh  hopeless.  In  other  words,  suspense  lies  in  the 
incidents — not  in  the  character. 

11.  How  can  I  give  my  story  an  effective  climax? 

As  stated  elsewhere,  an  effective  climax  practically 
means  a  surprise  climax.  The  method  used  here  is  a  vari- 
ant of  method  2,  suggested  on  page  103.  The  character 
accomplishes  exactly  what  he  set  out  in  the  beginning 


168  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

of  the  story  to  accomplish,  all  of  which  should  arouse  no 
surprise.  But  the  surprise  is  that  the  reader  is  sur- 
prised. Soapy,  having  exhausted  all  the  means  that  a 
clever  ingenuity  could  devise  to  attain  a  certain  object, 
unexpectedly  finds  that  his  desire  to  attain  that  object 
has  given  place  to  a  desire  for  something  entirely  differ- 
ent; and  at  this  very  moment  of  self -revelation,  the  object 
which  he  has  renounced  comes  to  him. 


GREATER  LOVE  HATH  NO  MAN  * 

BY   BEATRICE    WALKER 

He  was  a  breaker  boy  and  his  name  was  Billy  Twist. 
At  least  every  one  had  always  called  him  Billy,  and  a  keen- 
eyed  tourist  who  had  once  noticed  the  boy  as  he  had  held 
off  a  derisive  mob  of  fellow  breaker  boys  had  added  the 
Twist.  And  Billy  Twist  he  had  remained.  For  Billy 
Twist  was  a  hunchback,  and  his  soul — for  even  breaker 
boys  have  souls — was  as  dwarfed  and  stunted  as  his  body. 

He  had  been  a  breaker  boy  ever  since  he  could  remem- 
ber, and  although  he  was  only  eleven  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  could  look  back  upon  a  century  made  up  of  days 
just  alike — days  of  climbing  up  the  narrow  creaking 
stairs  of  the  breaker,  flight  after  flight  up  to  the  very 
sky.  Day  after  day  of  sitting  cramped  up  on  the  narrow 
bench,  bent  hour  after  hour  over  the  endless  chain  that 
swept  below  him,  mechanically  picking  out  the  slate  from 
the  coal ;  day  after  day  of  this,  with  only  a  brief  hour 
at  noon  snatched  for  his  hard  lunch,  and  back  to  work. 
At  night,  going  to  the  place  he  called  home,  to  Mark 
Scanlon's  shack,  too  tired  to  eat  the  greasy  supper  or  to 
pay  any  attention  to  the  scant  remarks  that  Mark  Scanlon 
and  his  slatternly  wife  threw  at  each  other;  then  going 
to  bed  in  a  corner  of  the  one  room — too  tired  to  sleep, 
his  tired  body  aching  in  every  bone  and  his  mind  filled 
only  by  a  dull  listlessness,  that  in  a  vague  way  took  in 

*From  The  Gateway  Magazine.  Published  by  the  Cen  Rune  of  the 
American  College  Quill  Club. 

169 


170  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

the  ghostly  rustle  of  the  wind  around  the  corner  of  the 
shack  and  the  creaking  rattle  of  the  machinery  of  the 
breaker.  This  sound  did  not  bother  him,  but  the  cessa- 
tion of  it  would  have  startled  him  like  a  clap  of  thunder. 

And  then  had  come  Big  Tom  McGregor.  He  was  a 
light-haired  young  giant  fresh  from  a  Technical  School, 
with  a  world  peopled  with  beautiful  ideals.  Billy  Twist 
had  first  noticed  him  one  noon  when,  with  the  other 
breaker  boys,  he  had  hung  out  of  the  narrow  slit-like 
windows  of  the  breaker  high  above  the  entrance  of  the 
mine  to  watch  the  men  pour  out  of  the  shaft.  From 
that  height  they  looked  like  ants  pouring  out  of  a  hole 
down  which  some  one  had  thrust  a  straw. 

There  was  something  different  about  this  tall  young 
man  who  towered  above  the  others.  Billy  watched  him 
from  a  distance,  trying  to  classify  him.  Yes,  he  was 
different.  Billy  could  not  place  the  difference,  but  he  felt 
it  and  waited  with  a  sickening  dread  for  the  time  to  come, 
as  he  had  seen  it  come  with  so  many  others,  when  the 
breaker  would  have  marked  him  for  its  own,  would  have 
bowed  that  erect  head,  changed  that  stride  to  the  hopeless 
shufHe,  and  brought  to  his  eyes  the  dull  stare  that  he 
knew  so  well. 

He  watched  him  closely,  fascinated  with  the  fascination 
that  the  physically  perfect  always  hold  for  the  deformed. 
He  could  see  the  impression  the  town  and  its  inhabitants 
made  upon  Tom  McGregor.  He  saw  the  instinctive 
tightening  of  the  engineer's  lips  and  the  hardening  of  the 
eyes  when  he  looked  at  the  sordid  little  town.  For  it  was 
sordid  and  terrible.  Billy  Twist  did  not  realize  how  ter- 
rible because  he  had  never  known  anything"  else. 

It  was  a  typical  breaker  town,  well-named,  for,  as  in 
all  villages  that  bear  that  name,  the  breaker  towered  over 


GREATER  LOVE  HATH  NO  MAN        171 

all  the  little  shacks  that  surrounded  it.  It  was  like  a 
huge  spider,  grim,  black  and  sprawling,  watching  with  its 
dull,  smoke-grimed  eyes  for  any  chance  straggler  that 
it  might  gather  in  and  mark  for  its  own.  Farther  and 
farther  it  extended  its  sway — even  beyond  the  heaps  of 
rubbish  and  tin  cans  that  marked  the  end  of  the  straggling 
street.  In  winter  the  filthy  snow  and  in  summer  the  sooty 
pall,  blotting  out  the  growth  of  even  the  weeds,  proclaimed 
the  domain  of  the  breaker. 

The  sooty  pine  shacks,  clustered  around  its  base,  were 
miniature  copies  of  the  breaker  itself,  for  the  unpainted 
pine  boards  were  quick  to  take  on  the  color  of  their 
surroundings. 

Billy  Twist  had  noticed  strangers'  seeming  distaste  for 
the  conditions  and  he  could  not  help  noticing  that  Tom 
McGregor  felt  the  same  way.  He  tried  to  decide  what 
had  made  a  young  man  of  his  type  choose  such  a  place 
in  which  to  begin  his  engineering  experience  if  he  hated 
it  so.  It  was  so  evident  that  he  hated  it,  yet  he  never 
seemed  to  try  to  avoid  the  breaker  or  the  town.  Duty 
never  called  the  engineers  into  the  breaker  itself  with  its 
whirring  machinery  and  flying  dust.  But  this  engineer 
was  often  to  be  seen  standing  about,  unnoticed  by  the 
workers  whose  sullen  smoke-colored  eyes  could  see 
nothing  but  the  coal  by  which  their  whole  lives  were 
colored. 

But  Billy  Twist  noticed  and  wondered.  He  wondered 
still  more  when,  one  noon,  he  clambered  up  the  steep 
stairs  to  avoid  the  other  breaker  boys  who  made  the  noon 
hour  unbearable  to  him,  and  found  Tom  McGregor  on 
the  incline,  examining  the  belts  and  benches.  He  looked 
up,  nodded  casually,  and  started  on  down  the  stairs. 

The  other  breaker  boys  soon  clattered  up,  and  work 


172  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

started  as  usual.  But  Billy  Twist's  thoughts  were  in  a 
tumult.  No  one  ever  climbed  all  those  steep  steps  except 
on  business,  for  the  cupola  was  not  a  pleasant  spot. 
People  were  wont  to  come  up,  stay  only  as  long  as  nec- 
essary, and  go  down  as  soon  as  possible.  No  engineer 
had  ever  come  up  there  before,  engineers  were  not  paid 
for  that  sort  of  thing.  Then  it  dawned  on  Billy:  This 
engineer  must  be  paid  for  it,  paid  by  some  one  to  look 
at  workings  of  the  breaker  and  the  men.  An  inspector! 
Well,  he  would  not  tell.  He  would  not  even  let  Tom 
McGregor  know  that  he  knew. 

On  his  way  home  that  evening,  Billy  was  hemmed  in 
by  four  men  who  were  making  sport  of  him,  and  he  was 
replying  with  his  usual  mixture  of  profanity  and  bald 
truth.  Billy  did  not  mind  much,  he  knew  that  he  gave 
back  as  good  as  the  others  gave  him,  andj  besides,  he  was 
accustomed  to  it.  But  Big  Tom  McGregor  was  not  ac- 
customed to  seeing  grown  men  bait  a  child  and  he  stopped. 
It  did  not  take  many  words  to  send  the  men  about  their 
business,  because  for  the  safety  of  their  jobs  it  was 
better  not  to  bandy  words  with  the  new  engineer.  So 
they  slunk  off  feeling  rather  more  abused  than  ashamed. 

Tom  McGregor  looked  down  at  the  bent  little  figure 
before  him.  He  had  noticed  the  boy  often  before.  Billy 
Twist's  shrunken  form  and  old  face  would  make  anyone 
look  twice.  At  first  he  had  merely  pitied  the  boy,  but 
later,  after  once  or  twice  watching  him  hold  off  a  crowd 
of  young  tormentors,  he  had  begun  to  feel  a  certain 
admiration  for  the  agile  mind  that  must  dwell  within 
the  big  head  enabling  him  to  hold  his  own  against  the 
horde  of  young  hoodlums  who  amused  their  lunch  hour 
by  tormenting  him.  The  queer  little  waif  must  have  a 
valiant  spirit,  he  thought,  to  bear  up  under  his  deformity 


GREATER  LOVE  HATH  NO  MAN        173 

and  not  be  utterly  crushed  by  the  jibes,  blows  and  jeers 
that  made  up  his  usual  fare.  But  when  he  had  overheard 
the  remarks  by  which  Billy  held  off  his  tormentors,  his 
grudging  admiration  increased,  for  the  vocabulary  of 
this  dwarfed  eleven -year-old  was  such  as  to  make  the 
oldest  mule  driver  or  miner  blush  and  give  up  all  hope 
of  achieving.  Tom  was  accustomed  to  the  language  of 
the  mining  camps,  but  he  had  never  heard  anyone  swear 
with  such  picturesque  force  and  enthusiasm  as  this  un- 
canny child.  He  thought  of  his  own  sheltered  happy 
childhood,  and  shuddered.  But  then,  he  thought,  how 
could  one  judge?  The  kid  had  never  had  a  chance  and  it 
certainly  showed  cleverness  to  use  the  only  weapon  he 
possessed,  and  the  never  ending  pluck  of  the  queer  child 
fascinated  him. 

So  tonight  he  welcomed  the  chance  to  talk  to  the  boy 
in  order  to  find  out,  if  possible,  just  what  went  on  inside 
that  queer  top-heavy  head  of  his. 

Billy  Twist  was  startled.  He  was  startled  clear  out 
of  his  accustomed  self-possession.  He  had  had  someone 
to  defend  him  for  the  first  time  in  his  eleven  years,  and 
the  experience  was  so  new  that  he  did  not  know  quite 
what  to  do.  The  big  man  grinned  down  at  him. 

"Are  you  going  my  way,  kid?" 

This  experience  was  as  overpowering  as  the  other.  He 
had  never  had  anything  but  jeers  and  taunts  all  his  life, 
and  he  could  not  but  believe  that  this  was  some  sort  of 
a  game  to  make  sport  of  him  in  a  new  guise.  But  no 
one  should  be  able  to  say  that  he  was  a  coward,  so  he 
gathered  his  quick  wits  together  to  meet  whatever  form 
the  attack  might  take,  and  muttering  an  unintelligible 
assent,  he  fell  in  beside  the  tall  engineer. 

Tom  shortened  his  stride  to  try  to  keep  pace  with  the 


174  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

odd  shuffling  step  of  the  queer  little  figure  beside  him. 
He  felt  the  same  surging  pity  that  always  brought  a 
lump  to  his  throat  at  sight  of  a  wounded  or  wronged 
animal.  And  this  child  had  been  wronged,  he  had  been 
robbed  of  his  chance  for  a  clean,  healthy,  normal  child- 
hood. He  would  try  to  be  a  good  angel  to  the  little  fel- 
low, would  give  him  something  to  read  and  try  to  improve 
that  uncanny  mind  that  knew  too  much  for  its  years. 

"You  all  don't  think  we-uns  know  how  t'  run  this 
mine,  do  yuh?  Yer  goin'  t'  tell  them  that  this  here 
breaker's  a  back  number." 

The  shrill  voice  broke  in  upon  his  complacent  musing. 
Good  Heavens !  Did  this  child  really  have  second  sight  ? 
No  one  except  the  actual  government  officials  that  em- 
ployed him  knew  that  besides  being  the  new  engineer  he 
was  also  a  government  employee  to  report  whether  or  not 
the  mine  and  breaker  were  being  run  according  to  law 
and  for  the  safety  of  its  employees  instead  of  the  illegiti- 
mate profit  of  its  owners. 

He  looked  at  the  boy  with  new  interest.  The  child 
was  shrewd  all  right;  it  took  quick  wits  to  put  the  right 
construction  on  his  unusual  interest  for  an  engineer  in 
the  conditions  of  the  mine  and  breaker.  He  had  evidently 
known  for  some  time  and  had  never  caused  his  discharge 
by  telling.  The  superintendent  and  owners  had  never 
guessed  at  the  reason. 

If  his  mind  had  had  any  chance,  what  a  boy  he'd  be! 
And  then  and  there  started  their  friendship,  the  dog-like 
devotion  of  the  little  hideous,  starved  breaker  boy  and 
the  brotherly  helping  love  of  the  big,  handsome  engineer. 
They  spent  every  minute  of  their  spare  time  together. 

One  day  they  were  eating  their  lunch  at  their  usual 
place  at  the  back  of  the  breaker,  where  on  the  slopes  of 


GREATER  LOVE  HATH  NO  MAN        175 

the  surrounding  hills  one  could  see' the  green  of  spring 
beginning  to  show,  for  it  takes  a  few  weeks  for  even 
a  breaker  to  blot  out  the  coming  of  spring.  The  pent-up 
love  of  beauty  in  the  child's  heart  burst  its  bonds  sud- 
denly. 

"It's  kinda  pretty,  ain't  it,  Tom?"  he  said  shyly.  Billy 
was  learning  fast.  But  even  yet  he  was  abashed  at  this 
sudden  demonstrativeness,  and  turned  to  see  what  effect 
it  would  have  on  his  companion.  It  needed  but  one  look 
to  show  Billy  that  Tom  had  not  heard  a  word.  He  was 
not  looking  at  the  hills,  but  was  staring  down  at  the  drab 
valley,  full  of  its  eternal  cloud  of  settling  smoke.  His 
mouth  was  hard,  yet  his  eyes  had  a  tender,  far-away  look 
that  told  Billy  that  he  saw  none  of  its  ugly  sordidness. 

"Tom,"  he  said  suddenly,  pulling  the  arm  next  him, 
"what  do  you  think  about  when  you  look  down  there  and 
kinda  grin  with  your  eyes??" 

McGregor  looked  around  with  a  start. 

He  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  seemed  to  come  to  a 
decision  and  said  suddenly,  "Kid,  you're  rather  old  for 
your  years  and  maybe  you  can  help  me.  You  see  you'll 
have  to  put  yourself  in  my  place.  If  you  loved  the  finest 
and  truest  girl  in  the  world  and  she  loved  you  too,  would 
you  bring  her  up  here  to  live  in  this  God- forsaken  hole 
when  you  wouldn't  have  anything  better  to  offer  for  a 
good  many  years,  or  would  you  ask  her  to  keep  on  waiting 
for  you?" 

Billy's  newly  found  world  clattered  about  his  ears.  A 
girl!  His  hero  in  love  with  a  girl!  He  thought  of  all 
the  girls  and  women  he  knew,  and  could  see  nothing  in 
them  to  attract  wonderful  Big  Tom  McGregor. 

Tom  felt  the  hesitancy  and  attributed  it  to  a  different 
cause. 


176  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

"You  see,  kid,"  he  hastened  to  explain,  "it  won't  make 
any  difference  between  you  and  me.  She  knows  all  about 
you  and  she  says  you  must  come  to  live  with  us.  Do  you 
want  to  see  her?"  pulling  out  his  watch.  "Now,  don't 
you  believe  that  she's  the  sweetest  girl  in  the  world?" 

Again  Billy's  world  swam.  This  radiant  creature  a 
girl !  He  thought  over  all  the  drab,  slatternly,  dull-eyed 
creatures  that  he  called  "girls,"  and  decided  silently  that 
they  had  nothing  in  common  with  this  bright-eyed  angel 
with  dainty  features  and  fluffy  hair.  But  while  he  did 
not  know  much  about  girls,  he  did  know  human  nature. 
He  knew  that  with  the  coming  of  this  creature,  things 
would  not  be  the  same  between  Tom  and  him,  and  that 
anyone  as  much  in  love  with  a  person  as  Tom  McGregor 
showed  himself  to  be  would  have  very  little  time  to  waste 
on  a  hunch-backed  waif.  But  while  he  knew  this,  he  knew 
better  than  to  say  so  to  Tom.  And  so  the  days — the 
most  wonderful  of  his  life  for  Billy — went  on  as  usual. 

One  day  he  was  at  work  high  up  in  the  tower  of  the 
breaker,  as  usual,  when  the  machinery  suddenly  stopped. 
All  the  boys  knew  what  had  happened,  it  meant  some 
accident  in  the  mine  beneath.  They  waited  a  minute, 
expecting  the  machinery  to  start,  but  when  it  did  not, 
they  hurried  to  the  narrow  windows  to  see  what  was 
happening  below  them. 

The  lift  came  up  the  shaft  hurriedly  as  they  watched, 
unloaded  a  crowd  of  excited  men,  made  a  quick  descent 
and  came  up  again  with  another  load  of  choking,  gasping 
humanity.  Evidently  this  was  something  serious,  not  one 
of  the  ordinary  minor  accidents  that  often  interrupted 
the  work  of  the  mine.  With  one  accord  the  crowd  of 
breaker  boys  turned  and  clattered  down  the  rickety  stairs 
like  a  herd  of  stampeding  ponies. 


GREATER  LOVE  HATH  NO  MAN        177 

When  they  reached  the  entrance  'of  the  shaft,  a  puff 
of  acrid-smelling,  yellow  smoke  belched  out.  Men  were 
running  dazedly  about,  shouting  hoarse,  confused  direc- 
tions, while  the  lift  still  kept  up  its  tireless  journey  up 
and  down,  bringing  up  a  load  of  half  unconscious  men, 
who  were  hauled  out  unceremoniously,  while  the  lift 
returned  for  more. 

As  they  stood  there,  a  hoarse  crash  followed  by  a 
steady  roar  seemed  to  sound  from  the  depths  of  the 
earth.  There  was  a  shout  from  below.  The  last  load. 
Billy's  heart  stood  still  as  the  stupefied  men  tumbled 
out.  Tom  was  not  among  them.  He  sidled  through  the 
crowd  until  he  could  grasp  the  sleeve  of  the  superin- 
tendent. The  man  looked  down  impatiently. 

"Tom,"  he  gasped,  "he  didn't  come  up." 

The  superintendent  gave  a  quick  glance  around. 
"Men,"  he  shouted  above  the  tumult,  "has  anyone  seen 
Big  Tom  McGregor?" 

A  hubbub  of  voices  answered.  "He  was  on  the  second 
level  when  the  cave-in  came !"  he  made  out  at  last.  "He 
went  down  to  the  third  level  to  help  dig  the  men  out," 
gasped  one. 

"Hasn't  he  come  up?"  thundered  the  boss.  No  one 
answered.  "Boys,"  he  said  again,  "will  any  of  you 
volunteer  to  go  down  with  me  to  get  McGregor?  We 
may  be  able  to  save  him  yet." 

Nearly  a  dozen  men  sprang  into  the  lift,  and  among 
them  no  one  noticed  Billy  Twist. 

The  air  at  the  bottom  of  the  shaft  was  horrible.  They 
bent  close  to  the  ground  and  crawled  along  like  worms, 
peering  through  the  murky  gleam  with  aching  eyes.  The 
gas-filled  air  seemed  to  lie  like  a  heavy  weight  upon  their 
lungs.  They  crawled  down  one  nassage  at  the  end  of 


i;8  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

which  a  red  gleam  was  growing  more  and  more  ominous. 

"No  use  going  any  further,"  choked  the  boss.  "This 
corridor  is  all  closed  up  where  the  timbers  fell.  The 
flames  are  back  there.  Tom!"  he  called.  "Tom  Mc- 
Gregor !" 

A  crash  nearly  deafened  them,  and  the  red  gleam  grew 
blinding. 

"We'll  have  to  get  out  of  this,"  he  cried,  staggering 
back.  They  all  turned  to  make  their  way  back  toward 
the  shaft.  But  with  a  shrill  cry  a  shadow  broke  away 
from  the  group. 

"Who  wras  it?"  they  all  cried,  their  benumbed  senses 
alert  for  an  instant. 

"It  was  the  crooked  one,  Billee,"  said  a  young  Italian, 
"he  came  down  with  us." 

A  blast  of  hot  gas-laden  air  choked  them. 

"Come  out  of  this.  We  can't  sacrifice  twelve  men  for 
one  and  a  half."  Hard?  No,  it  was  merely  the  stern 
stoicism  of  men  to  whom  the  nearness  of  death  is  all  in 
the  day's  work. 

Billy  plunged  forward  blindly.  He  crawled  through 
a  small  opening  in  the  fallen  timbers  and  came  out  upon 
a  roaring  furnace. 

"Tom !"  he  called.    "Tom!" 

"Here!"  answered  a  faint  voice.  Billy  dodged  around 
a  huge  beam  the  other  end  of  which  was  already  on  fire. 
The  red  light  made  the  murkiness  thick  and  uncanny. 
Tom  McGregor  lay  pinned  under  a  fallen  beam.  "Kid," 
he  cried  eagerly,  "have  you  brought  help?" 

"Hurry,  hurry  up,  Tom,  there's  still  time  to  get  back 
the  way  I  came  in.  We'll  be  in  time  yet." 

"Are  you  alone?"  Tom's  voice  was  dull  and  lifeless. 
"You  see,  I  can't  move  without  someone  strong  enough 


GREATER  LOVE  HATH  NO  MAN        179 

to  lift  this  timber  off  me,  and  besides,  I  guess  my  leg's 
done  for." 

Billy  flew  at  it  and  tugged  with  all  the  frenzied  strength 
given  him  by  desperation,  but  it  would  have  taken  the 
combined  strength  of  three  men  to  move  the  beam.  And 
in  spite  of  his  wiry  strength,  Billy  Twist  was  only  eleven. 

"It's  no  use,  Boy;  hurry  back  or  you'll  be  shut  in  too. 
Go  to  Alice,"  he  said  thickly,  "tell  her  I  loved  her,  take 
care  of  her,  kid.  I'm  not  afraid  to  go." 

"She'd  be  mighty  glad  to  see  me  if  I  came  back  without 
you,  wouldn't  she?  I'm  going  to  stay  here  with  you." 

"Why  you  little  fool,  don't  you  realize  that  you  can't 
live  here  ten  minutes?  Get  out  of  here.  I  tell  you,  I'll 
make  you  go."  Tom's  desperation  gave  him  strength 
to  drag  himself  to  a  sitting  posture.  "Get  out  of  here, 
I  say."  Billy  stood  stubbornly  silent.  There  was  a  flash 
of  blinding  light,  a  roaring  crash,  and  the  beams  that 
held  up  the  level  above  caved  in  blocking  the  passage. 

"Now,"  said  .Billy  Twist,  his  face  strangely  trans- 
figured; "I  can't  go!  Do  you  hear  me?  You  can't  make 
me  go!" 

"Forgive  me,"  gasped  the  man  hoarsely,  his  voice 
breaking.  .  .  .  "Kid,  you're  a  MAN  !" 

And  hand  in  hand  they  awaited  the  end. 

Five  days  later  after  the  fire  was  smothered,  when  the 
mine  was  again  unsealed,  they  brought  up  the  two  charred 
bodies.  And  the  sad-eyed  girl  from  another  state,  when 
asked  concerning  the  body  of  the  man  she  had  loved, 
cried  out : 

"Oh,  let  me  take  them  both.  Who  am  I  to  separate 
two  friends  that  even  death  was  not  strong  enough  to 
part?" 


CREATIVE   CRITICISM   OF   STORY   OF 
ATMOSPHERE 

"GREATER  LOVE  HATH   NO  MAN,"  BY  BEATRICE  WALKER 

1.  Character. 

As  this  story  starts  out  with  a  description  of  the  chief 
character  some  might  consider  it  more  of  a  character 
story  than  story  of  atmosphere.  But  as  the  little  boy 
is  dominated — even  as  to  the  shape  of  his  body  and 
lineations  of  his  soul  and  mind — by  the  setting  in  which 
he  is  living — it  properly  belongs  to  the  story  of  atmos- 
phere or  setting.  Billy  Twist  is  used,  in  a  way,  as  the 
means  to  interpret  the  setting.  His  dominant  trait  at 
the  beginning  of  the  story  is  his  shrewd,  almost  uncanny 
ability  to  see  into  motives  of  others  and  his  ability  to 
take  care  of  himself  in  rough-and-tumble  word  battles. 
His  striking  contradiction  is  his  love  for  the  big  engi- 
neer ;  in  this  case  the  contradiction  assumes  the  propor- 
tions of  a  dominant  trait  before  the  story  progresses  far. 

2.  Complication. 

Only  sufficient  complication  was  needed  to  bring  out 
the  setting  and  its  effects  upon  the  leading  character. 
In  this  case  the  problem  (in  Billy's  mind)  is:  How  can 
I  show  my  love  for  my  big  friend  ?  Bearing  this  in  mind 
you  will  see  that  the  ending  is  not  a  tragedy  but  a  tri- 
umph. 

The  action  in  this  story  begins  with  Situation  16  (In 
the  clutches  of  misfortune),  receives  its  motivation  from 
Situation  17  (The  Savior),  moves  by  means  of  character 

1 80 


CRITICISM  OF  STORY  OF  ATMOSPHERE     181 

contrast  to  a  dramatic  climax  built  .up  out  of  Situation  5 
(An  audacious  attempt),  and  23  (Self-sacrifice  for  a 
friend). 

3.  Setting. 

In  a  student  theme  the  writer  of  this  story  wrote  a 
description  of  an  actual  breaker  town  which  she  had 
lived  in.  Later  she  strove  to  find  characters  and  plot 
to  interpret  this  setting,  and  the  story  grew  out  of  this 
attempt.  The  original  description,  greatly  shortened,  was 
inserted  in  the  story — not  at  the  beginning,  but  as  soon 
as  the  interest  of  the  reader  was  sufficiently  aroused; 
"It  was  a  typical  breaker  town,"  etc. — and  through  the 
following  paragraph.  But  not  depending  upon  this  single 
block  of  description,  the  writer  by  means  of  constant 
little  touches — words  or  phrases — keeps  the  setting  con- 
stantly before  the  reader's  eye. 

4.  Theme. 

The  title  of  the  story  might  imply  that  the  story  was 
primarily  a  story  with  a  moral.  A  careful  reading  will, 
however,  show  that  both  setting  and  character  are  more 
dominant  than  the  theme. 

5.  Movement. 

A  story  in  which  setting  and  character  are  as  promi- 
nent as  in  this  should  necessarily  march  with  a  slower 
movement  than  a  story  of  complication  such  as  "The  Cop 
and  the  Anthem."  You  will  note  that  the  movement  flows 
in  a  much  more  leisurely  manner  than  in  the  O.  Henry 
story.  As  this  story  moves  toward  its  emotional  climax 
the  rhythm  or  movement  gradually  changes — giving  us  an 
excellent  example  of  "cumulative  movement." 


182  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

6.  What  shall  be  the  viewpoint? 

The  over-the-shoulder  viewpoint  is  used  with  Billy 
Twist  the  center,  with  one  or  two  modifications.  One 
of  these  modifications  is  where  we  are  admitted  into 
McGregor's  thoughts  when  he  looks  down  upon  the  bent 
figure  of  Billy,  holding  the  men  at  bay  who  were  bandy- 
ing words  with  him.  Another  is  where  we  get  the  words 
of  McGregor's  sweetheart  after  Billy  is  dead.  For  ob- 
vious reasons  essential  to  the  plot  these  deviations  from 
the  strict  single  person  viewpoint  were  permissible. 

7.  Where  shall  I  begin? 

The  story  begins  with  a  description  of  Billy  Twist  in 
the  center  of  his  lonely,  sordid  surroundings  of  the 
Breaker  Town.  It  is  a  good  example  of  that  type  of 
description  which  describes  the  surroundings  and  the  ef- 
fect of  the  surroundings  upon  the  person  even  more 
clearly  than  it  describes  the  character  himself.  Thus  the 
character  and  the  setting  of  the  story  are  established  in 
the  reader's  mind  at  one  and  the  same  time. 

8.  How  many  episodes  and  how  shall  I  connect  them? 
There   are   four   episodes   in  this   story.     A   beginner 

should  rarely  attempt  more.  In  the  first  one  Billy  ob- 
serves McGregor.  In  the  second  McGregor  notices  Billy 
and  they  become  friends.  In  the  third  they  are  shown 
as  fast  friends — of  greatly  contrasted  types.  In  the 
fourth  they  enter  upon  the  Great  Adventure  together. 
The  first  three  episodes  are  woven  together  so  as  to  lead 
to  the  main  incident — the  sacrifice  of  Billy  Twist  for 
the  engineer.  As  in  the  two  preceding  stories  the  transi- 
tions are  skillfully  handled,  especially  for  a  beginner — 
and  deserve  careful  scrutiny.  "And  then  had  come  Big 


CRITICISM  OF  STORY  OF  ATMOSPHERE      183 

Tom  McGregor."  "He  wondered  still  more  when,  one 
noon,  he  clambered  up  the  steep  stairs  to,  etc."  "One 
day  they  were  eating  their  lunch  in  their  usual  place  at 
the  back  of  the  breaker."  "One  day  he  was  at  work 
high  up  in  the  tower  of  the  breaker  as  usual  when  the 
machinery  suddenly  stopped." 

9.  How  can  I  make  my  climax  seem  plausible? 

The  problem  of  plausibility  centers  upon  th«  event  of 
Billy  Twist's  sacrifice.  This  is  made  plausible  by  reason 
of  the  picturing  of  his  starved  and  stunted  life  in  the 
cold  breaker  town,  his  own  limited  future  without  the 
engineer,  his  great  craving  for  love,  and  his  idealization 
of  McGregor. 

10.  How  can  I  increase  the  suspense? 

Suspense  is  prepared  first  by  arousing  the  interest 
of  the  reader  in  the  chief  character.  Contrast  the  love 
which  the  reader  inevitably  experiences  for  the  little 
stunted  boy  with  the  more  removed  interest  one  feels  in 
Soapy.  Suspense  is  also  achieved  by  means  of  the  very 
unsolvable  problem  of  how  to  rescue  Big  Tom  at  the 
climax. 

11.  How  can  I  give  my  story  an  effective  climax? 
The  surprise  here  lies  in  the  fact  that  he  is  not  rescued 

at  all.  It  is  made  effective  through  emotion.  It  is  the 
kind  of  "surprise"  permitted  in  college  magazines  but  not 
very  popular  among  the  big  best  selling  magazines  that 
boast  of  large  circulations. 


THE  DARK  HOUR* 

BY  WILBUR  DANIEL  STEELE 

The  returning  ship  swam  swiftly  through  the  dark; 
the  deep,  interior  breathing  of  the  engines,  the  singing 
of  wire  stays,  the  huge  whispering  rush  of  foam  stream- 
ing the  water-line  made  up  a  body  of  silence  upon  which 
the  sound  of  the  doctor's  footfalls,  coming  and  going 
restlessly  along  the  near  deck,  intruded  only  a  little — a 
faint  and  personal  disturbance.  Charging  slowly  through 
the  dark,  a  dozen  paces  forward,  a  dozen  paces  aft,  his 
invisible  and  tormented  face  bent  forward  a  little  over  his 
breast,  he  said  to  himself, — 

"What  fools !     What  blind  fools  we've  been !" 

Sweat  stood  for  an  instant  on  his  brow,  and  was  gone 
in  the  steady  onrush  of  the  wind. 

The  man  lying  on  the  cot  in  the  shelter  of  the  cabin 
companionway  made  no  sound  all  the  while.  He  might 
have  been  asleep  or  dead,  he  remained  so  quiet;  yet  he 
was  neither  asleep  nor  dead,  for  his  eyes,  large,  wasted, 
and  luminous,  gazed  out  unwinking  from  the  little  dark- 
ness of  his  shelter  into  the  vaster  darkness  of  the  night, 
where  a  star  burned  in  slow  mutations,  now  high,  now 
sailing  low,  over  the  rail  of  the  ship. 

Once  he  said  in  a  washed  and  strengthless  voice 
"That's  a  bright  star,  doctor." 

If  the  other  heard,  he  gave  no  sign.  He  continued 
charging  slowly  back  and  forth,  his  large  dim  shoulders 
hunched  over  his  neck,  his  hands  locked  behind  him,  his 

*  Reprinted  from  The  Atlantic  Monthly  by   permission  of  the  author  and 
oublisher.     Copyright    1918  and   1919. 

184 


THE  DARK  HOUR  185 

teeth  showing  faintly  gray  between  -the  fleshy  lips  which 
hung  open  a  little  to  his  breathing. 

"It's  dark!"  he  said  of  a  sudden,  bringing  up  before 
the  cot  in  the  companionway.  "God,  Hallett,  how  dark 
it  is !"  There  was  something  incoherent  and  mutilated 
about  it,  as  if  the  cry  had  torn  the  tissues  of  his  throat. 
"I'm  not  myself  to-night,"  he  added,  with  a  trace  of  shame. 

Hallett  spoke  slowly  from  his  pillow. 

"It  wouldn't  be  the  subs  to-night?  You're  not  that 
kind,  you  know.  I've  seen  you  in  the  zone.  And  we're 
well  west  of  them  by  this,  anyhow;  and  as  you  say,  it's 
very  dark." 

"It's   not   that   darkness.     Not   that!" 

Again  there  was  the  same  sense  of  something  tearing. 
The  doctor  rocked  for  a  moment  on  his  thick  legs.  He 
began  to  talk. 

"It's  this  war—  '  His  conscience  protested :  "I  ought 
not  to  go  on  so — it's  not  right,  not  right  at  all — talking 
so  to  the  wounded — the  dying — I  shouldn't  go  on  so  to 
the  dying—  And  all  the  while  the  words  continued 

to  tumble  out  of  his  mouth.  "No,  I'm  not  a  coward — not 
especially.  You  know  I'm  not  a  coward,  Hallett.  You 
know  that.  But  just  now,  to-night,  somehow,  the  whole 
black  truth  of  the  thing  has  come  out  and  got  me — 
jumped  out  of  the  dark  and  got  me  by  the  neck,  Hallett. 
Look  here ;  I've  kept  a  stiff  lip.  Since  the  first  I've  said, 
'We'll  win  this  war.'  It's  been  a  matter  of  course.  So 
far  as  I  know,  never  a  hint  of  doubt  has  shadowed  my 
mind,  even  when  things  went  bad.  'In  the  end,'  I've 
said,  'in  the  end,  of  course,  we're  bound  to  win.'  " 

He  broke  away  again  to  charge  slowly  through  the 
dark  with  his  head  down,  butting;  a  large,  overheated 
animal  endowed  with  a  mind. 


i86  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

"But — do  we  want  to  win?" 

Hallett's  question,  very  faint  across  the  subdued 
breathings  and  showerings  of  the  ship,  fetched  the  doctor 
up.  He  stood  for  a  moment,  rocking  on  his  legs  and 
staring  at  the  face  of  the  questioner,  still  and  faintly 
luminous  on  the  invisible  cot.  Then  he  laughed  briefly, 
shook  himself,  and  ignored  the  preposterous  words.  He 
recollected  tardily  that  the  fellow  was  pretty  well  gone. 

"No,"  he  went  on.  "Up  to  to-night  I've  never  doubted. 
No  one  in  the  world,  in  our  part  of  the  world,  has 
doubted.  The  proposition  was  absurd  to  begin  with. 
Prussia,  and  her  fringe  of  hangers-on,  to  stand  against 
the  world — to  stand  against  the  very  drift  and  destiny 
of  civilization?  Impossible!  A  man  can't  do  the  im- 
possible ;  that's  logic,  Hallett,  and  that's  common  sense. 
They  might  have  their  day  of  it,  their  little  hour,  because 
they  had  the  jump — but  in  the  end!  in  the  end! —  But 
look  at  them,  will  you !  Look  at  them !  That's  what's 
got  me  to-night,  Hallett.  Look  at  them!  There  they 
stand.  They  won't  play  the  game,  won't  abide  at  all 
by  the  rules  of  logic,  of  common  sense.  Every  day, 
every  hour,  they  perform  the  impossible.  Not  once  since 
the  war  was  a  year  old  have  they  been  able  to  hang  out 
another  six  months.  They'd  be  wiped  from  the  earth; 
their  people  would  starve.  They're  wiped  from  the 
earth,  and  they  remain.  They  starve  and  lay  down  their 
skinny  bodies  on  the  ground,  and  they  stand  up  again 
with  sleek  bellies.  They  make  preposterous,  blind  boasts. 
They  say,  'We'll  over-run  Roumania  in  a  month.'  Fan- 
tastic! It's  done!  They  say,  'Russia!  New-born  Rus- 
sia? Strong  young  boy-Russia?  We'll  put  him  out  of 
it  for  good  and  all  by  Christmas.'  That  was  to  cheer 
up  the  hungry  ones  in  Berlin.  Everybody  saw  through 


THE  DARK  HOUR  187 

it.  The  very  stars  laughed.  It's  done!  God,  Hallett! 
It's  like  clockwork.  It's  like  a  rehearsed  and  abominable 
programme 

"Yes — a  programme." 

The  wounded  man  lay  quite  still  and  gazed  at  the 
star.  When  he  spoke,  his  words  carried  an  odd  sense 
of  authenticity,  finality.  His  mind  had  got  a  little  away 
from  him,  and  now  it  was  working  with  the  new,  oracular 
clarity  of  the  moribund.  It  bothered  the  doctor  inex- 
plicably— tripped  him  up.  He  had  to  shake  himself. 
He  began  to  talk  louder  and  make  wide,  scarcely  visible 
gestures. 

"We've  laughed  so  long,  Hallett.  There  was  Mittel- 
europa!  We  always  laughed  at  that.  A  wag's  tale.  To 
think  of  it — a  vast,  self-sufficient,  brutal  empire  laid 
down  across  the  path  of  the  world !  Ha-ha !  Why,  even 
if  they  had  wanted  it,  it  would  be " 

"If  they  wanted  it,  it  would  be — inevitable" 

The  doctor  held  up  for  a  full  dozen  seconds.  A  kind 
\-f  anger  came  over  him  and  his  face  grew  red.  He 
couldn't  understand.  He  talked  still  louder. 

"But  they're  doing  it !  They're  doing  that  same  pre- 
posterous thing  before  our  eyes,  and  we  can't  touch  them, 
and  they're — Hallett!  They're  damn  near  done!  Behind 
that  line  there, — you  know  the  line  I  mean, — who  of  us 
doesn't  know  it?  That  thin  line  of  smoke  and  ashes  and 
black  blood,  like  a  bent  black  wire  over  France?  Behind 
that  line  they're  at  work,  day  by  day,  month  after  month, 
building  the  empire  we  never  believed.  And  Hallett, 
it's  damn  near  done!  And  we  can't  stop  it.  It  grows 
bigger  and  bigger,  darker  and  darker — it  covers  up  the 
sky — like  a  nightmare — 

"Like  a  dream!"  said  Hallett  softly;  "a  dream." 


188  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

The  doctor's  boot-soles  drummed  with  a  dull,  angry 
resonance  on  the  deck. 

"And  we  can't  touch  them !  They  couldn't  conceivably 
hold  that  line  against  us — against  the  whole  world — long 
enough  to  build  their  incredible  empire  behind  it.  And 
they  have!  Hallett!  How  could  they  ever  have  held  it?" 

"You  mean,  how  could  we  ever  have  held  it?" 

Hallett's  words  flowed  on,  smooth,  clear-formed,  un- 
hurried, and  his  eyes  kept  staring  at  the  star. 

"No,  it's  we  have  held  it,  not  they.  And  we  that  have 
got  to  hold  it — longer  than  they.  Theirs  is  the  kind  of 
a  Mitteleuropa  that's  been  done  before;  history  is  little 
more  than  a  copybook  for  such  an  empire  as  they  are 
building.  We've  got  a  vaster  and  more  incredible  empire 
to  build  than  they — a  Mitteleuropa,  let  us  say,  of  the 
spirit  of  man.  No,  no,  doctor ;  it's  we  that  are  doing  the 
impossible,  holding  that  thin  line." 

The  doctor  failed  to  contain  himself. 

"Oh,  pshaw,  pshaw!  See  here,  Hallett!  We've  had 
the  men,  and  there's  no  use  blinking  the  truth.  And 
we've  had  the  money  and  the  munitions." 

"But  back  of  all  that,  behind  the  last  reserve,  the  last 
shell-dump,  the  last  treasury,  haven't  they  got  something 
that  we've  never  had?" 

"And  what's  that?" 

"A  dream." 

"A  what?" 

"A  dream.  We've  dreamed  no  dream.  Yes — let  me 
say  it!  A  little  while  ago  you  said,  'nightmare,'  and  I 
said,  'dream.'  Germany  has  dreamed  a  dream.  Black 
as  the  pit  of  hell, — yes,  yes, — but  a  dream.  They've  seen 
a  vision.  A  red,  bloody,  damned  vision, — yes,  yes, — but 


THE  DARK  HOUR  189 

a  vision.  They've  got  a  programme,  even  if  it's  what 
you  called  it,  a  'rehearsed  and  abominable  programme.' 
And  they  know  what  they  want.  And  we  don't  know 
what  we  want!" 

The  doctor's  fist  came  down  in  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

"What  we  want?  I'll  tell  you  what  we  want,  Hallett. 
We  want  to  win  this  war!" 

"Yes?" 

"And  by  the  living  God>  Hallett,  we  will  win  this  war ! 
I  can  see  again.  If  we  fight  for  half  a  century  to  come; 
if  we  turn  the  world  wrong-side-out  for  men,  young  men, 
boys,  babes;  if  we  mine  the  earth  to  a  hollow  shell  for 
coal  and  iron;  if  we  wear  our  women  to  ghosts  to  get 
out  the  last  grain  of  wheat  from  the  fields — we'll  do  it! 
And  we'll  wipe  this  black  thing  from  the  face  of  the 
earth  forever,  root  and  branch,  father  and  son  of  the 
bloody  race  of  them  to  the  end  of  time.  If  you  want  a 
dream,  Hallett,  there's  a " 

"There's  a — nightmare.  An  over- weening  muscular 
impulse  to  jump  on  the  thing  that's  scared  us  in  the 
dark,  to  break  it  with  our  hands,  grind  it  into  the  ground 
with  our  heels,  tear  ourselves  away  from  it — and  wake 
up." 

He  went  on  again  after  a  moment  of  silence. 

"Yes,  that's  it,  that's  it.  We've  never  asked  for  any- 
thing better;  not  once  since  those  terrible  August  days 
have  we  got  down  on  our  naked  knees  and  prayed  for 
anything  more  than  just  to  be  allowed  to  wake  up — and 
find  it  isn't  so.  How  can  we  expect,  with  a  desire  like 
that,  to  stand  against  a  positive  and  a  flaming  desire? 
No,  no!  The  only  thing  to  beat  a  dream  is  a  dream 
more  poignant.  The  only  thing  to  beat  a  vision  black 


190  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

as  midnight  is  a  vision  white  as  the  noonday  sun.  We've 
come  to  the  place,  doctor,  where  half  a  loaf  is  worse  than 
no  bread." 

The  doctor  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  took  them 
out  again,  shifted  away  a  few  steps  and  back  again.  He 
felt  inarticulate,  handless,  helpless  in  the  face  of  things, 
of  abstractions,  of  the  mysterious,  unflagging  swiftness 
of  the  ship,  bearing  him  willy-nilly  over  the  blind  surface 
of  the  sea.  He  shook  himself. 

"God  help  us,"  he-said. 

"What  God?" 

The  doctor  lifted  a  weary  hand. 

"Oh,  if  you're  going  into  that " 

"Why  not?  Because  Prussia,  doctor,  has  a  god.  Prus- 
sia has  a  god  as  terrible  as  the  God  of  conquering  Israel, 
a  god  created  in  her  own  image.  We  laugh  when  we 
hear  her  speaking  intimately  and  surely  to  this  god.  I 
tell  you  we're  fools.  I  tell  you,  doctor,  before  we  shall 
stand  we  shall  have  to  create  a  god  in  our  own  image,  and 
before  we  do  that  we  shall  have  to  have  a  living  and 
sufficient  image." 

"You  don't  think  much  of  us,"  the  doctor  murmured 
wearily. 

The  other  seemed  not  to  hear.  After  a  little  while  he 
said, — 

"We've  got  to  say  black  or  white  at  last.  We've  got 
to  answer  a  question  this  time  with  a  whole  answer." 

"This  war  began  so  long  ago,"  he  went  on,  staring  at 
the  star.  "So  long  before  Sarajevo,  so  long  before  'bal- 
ances of  power'  were  thought  of,  so  long  before  the 
'provinces'  were  lost  and  won,  before  Bismarck  and  the 
lot  of  them  were  begotten,  or  their  fathers.  So  many, 
many  years  of  questions  put,  and  half-answers  given  in 


THE  DARK  HOUR  191 

return.  Questions,  questions :  questions  of  a  power -loom 
in  the  North  Counties ;  questions  of  a  mill-hand's  lodging 
in  one  Manchester  or  another,  of  the  weight  of  a  head- 
tax  in  India,  of  a  widow's  mass  for  her  dead  in  Spain; 
questions  of  a  black  man  in  the  Congo,  of  an  eighth-black 
man  in  New  Orleans,  of  a  Christian  in  Turkey,  an 
Irishman  in  Dublin,  a  Jew  in  Moscow,  a  French  cripple 
in  the  streets  of  Zabern;  questions  of  an  idiot  sitting  on 
a  throne;  questions  of  a  girl  asking  her  vote  on  a  Hyde 
Park  rostrum,  of  a  girl  asking  her  price  in  the  dark 
of  a  Chicago  door- way — whole  questions  half -answered, 
hungry  questions  half -fed,  mutilated  fag-ends  of  ques- 
tions piling  up  and  piling  up  year  by  year,  decade  after 
decade. — Listen!  There  came  a  time  when  it  wouldn't 
do,  wouldn't  do  at  all.  There  came  a  time  when  the  son 
of  all  those  questions  stood  up  in  the  world,  final,  unequiv- 
ocal, naked,  devouring,  saying,  'Now  you  shall  answer 
me.  You  shall  look  me  squarely  in  the  face  at  last,  and 
you  shall  look  at  nothing  else ;  you  shall  take  your  hands 
out  of  your  pockets  and  your  tongues  out  of  our  cheeks, 
and  no  matter  how  long,  no  matter  what  the  blood  and 
anguish  of  it,  you  shall  answer  me  now  with  a  whole 
answer — or  perish !' ' 

"And  what's  the  answer?" 

The  doctor  leaned  down  a  little,  resting  his  hands  on 
the  foot  of  the  cot. 

The  gray  patch  of  Hallett's  face  moved  slightly  in  the 
dark. 

"It  will  sound  funny  to  you.  Because  it's  a  word  that's 
been  worn  pretty  thin  by  so  much  careless  handling. 
It's  'Democracy!'" 

The  doctor  stood  up  straight  on  his  thick  legs. 

"Why  should  it  sound  funny?"  he  demanded,  a  vein 


192  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

of  triumph  in  his  tone.  "It  is  the  answer.  And  we've 
given  it.  'Make  the  world  safe  for  democracy!'  Eh? 
You  remember  the  quotation?" 

"Yes,  yes,  that's  good.  But  we've  got  to  do  more  than 
say  it,  doctor.  Go  further.  We've  got  to  dream  it  in  a 
dream;  we've  got  to  see  democracy  as  a  wild,  consuming 
vision.  If  the  day  ever  comes  when  we  shall  pronounce 
the  word  'democracy'  with  the  same  fierce  faith  with' 
which  we  conceive  them  to  be  pronouncing  'autocracy' — 
that  day,  doctor " 

He  raised  a  transparent  hand  and  moved  it  slowly 
over  his  eyes. 

"It  will  be  something  to  do,  doctor,  that  will.  Like 
taking  hold  of  lightning,  It  will  rack  us  body  and  soul ; 
belief  will  strip  us  naked  for  a  moment,  leave  us  new- 
born and  shaken  and  weak — as  weak  as  Christ  in  the 
manger.  And  that  day  nothing  can  stand  before  us. 
Because,  you  see,  we'll  know  'what  we  want." 

The  doctor  stood  for  a  moment  as  he  had  been,  a  large, 
dark  troubled  body  rocking  slowly  to  the  heave  of  the 
deck  beneath  him.  He  rubbed  a  hand  over  his  face. 

"Utopian!"  he  said. 

"Utopian  !"  Hallett  repeated  after  him.  "To-day  we  are 
children  of  Utopia — or  we  are  nothing.  I  tell  you,  doc- 
tor, to-day  it  has  come  down  to  this — Hamburg  to  Bag- 
dad— or — Utopia !" 

The  other  lifted  his  big  arms  and  his  face  was  red. 

"You're  playing  with  words,  Hallett.  You  do  nothing 
but  twist  my  words.  When  I  say  Utopian,  I  mean, 
precisely,  impossible.  Absolutely  impossible.  See  here! 
You  tell  me  this  empire  of  theirs  is  a  dream.  I  give  you 
that.  How  long  has  it  taken  them  to  dream  it?  Forty 
years.  Forty  years!  And  this  wild,  transcendental  em- 


THE  DARK  HOUR  193 

pire  of  the  spirit  you  talk  about,— so  much  harder, — so 
many  hundreds  of  times  more  incredible, — will  you  have 
us  do  that  sort  of  a  thing  in  a  day?  We're  a  dozen  races, 
a  score  of  nations.  I  tell  you  it's — it's  impossible !" 

"Yes.     Impossible." 

The  silence  came  down  between  them,  heavy  with  all 
the  dark,  impersonal  sounds  of  passage,  the  rythmical 
explosions  of  the  waves,  the  breathing  of  engines,  the 
muffled  staccato  of  the  spark  in  the  wireless  room,  the 
note  of  the  ship's  bell  forward  striking  the  hour  and 
after  it  a  hail,  running  thin  in  the  wind:  "Six  bells,  sir, 
and— all's  well!" 

"All's  well!" 

The  irony  of  it !  The  infernal  patness  of  it,  falling 
so  in  the  black  interlude,  like  stage  business  long  re- 
hearsed. 

"All's  well!"  the  doctor  echoed  with  the  mirthless  laugh- 
ter of  the  damned. 

Hallett  raised  .himself  very  slowly  on  an  elbow  and 
stared  at  the  star  beyond  the  rail. 

"Yes,  I  shouldn't  wonder.  Just  now — to-night — some- 
how— I've  got  a  queer  feeling  that  maybe  it  is.  Maybe 
it's  going  to  be. — Maybe  it's  going  to  be;  who  knows? 
The  darkest  hour  of  our  lives,  of  history,  perhaps,  has 
been  on  us.  And  maybe  it's  almost  over.  Maybe  we're 
going  to  do  the  impossible,  after  all,  doctor.  And  maybe 
we're  going  to  get  it  done  in  time.  I've  got  a  queer  sense 
of  something  happening — something  getting  ready." 

When  he  spoke  again,  his  voice  had  changed  a  little. 

"I  wish  my  father  could  have  lived  to  see  this  day.  He's 
in  New  York  now,  and  I  should  like " 

The  doctor  moved  forward  suddenly  and  quietly,  say- 
ing: "Lie  down,  Hallett.  You'd  better  lie  down  now." 


194  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

But  the  other  protested  with  a  gray  hand. 

"No,  no,  you  don't  understand.  When  I  say — well — 
it's  just  the  shell  of  my  father  walking  around  and  talk- 
ing around,  these  ten  years  past.  Prison  killed  his  heart. 
He  doesn't  even  know  it,  that  the  immortal  soul  of  him 
has  gone  out.  You  know  him,  doctor.  Ben  Hallett;  the 
Radical — 'the  Destroyer,'  they  used  to  call  him  in  the 
old  days.  He  was  a  brave  man,  doctor;  you've  got  to 
give  him  that ;  as  brave  as  John  the  Baptist,  and  as  mad. 
I  can  see  him  now, — to-night, — sitting  in  the  back  room 
in  Eighth  Street,  he  and  old  Radinov  and  Hirsch  and 
O'Reilly  and  the  rest,  with  all  the  doors  shut  and  the 
windows  shut  and  their  eyes  and  ears  and  minds  shut 
up  tight,  trying  to  keep  the  war  out.  They're  old  men, 
doctor,  and  they  must  cling  to  yesterday,  and  to  to- 
morrow. They  mustn't  see  to-day.  They  must  ignore 
to-day.  To-day  is  the  tragic  interruption.  They  too  ask 
nothing  but  to  wake  up  and  find  it  isn't  so.  All  their 
lives  they've  been  straining  forward  to  see  the  ineffable 
dawn  of  the  Day  of  Man,  calling  for  the  Commune  and 
the  red  barricades  of  revolution.  The  barricades !  Yes- 
terday, it  seems  to  them  now,  they  were  almost  in  sight 
of  the  splendid  dawn — the  dawn  of  the  Day  of  Barri- 
cades. And  then  this  war,  this  thing  they  call  a  'rich 
man's  plot'  to  confound  them,  hold  them  up,  turn  to 
ashes  all  the  fire  of  their  lives.  All  they  can  do  is  sit 
in  a  closed  room  with  their  eyes  shut  and  wait  till  this 
meaningless  brawl  is  done.  And  then,  to-morrow — to- 
morrow— some  safely  distant  to-morrow  (for  they're  old 
men), — to-morrow,  the  barricades!  And  that's  queer. 
That's  queer." 

"Queer?" 

"It  seems  to  me  that  for  days  now,   for  weeks  and 


THE  DARK  HOUR  195 

months  now,  there's  been  no  sound  to  be  heard  in  all 
the  length  and  breadth  of  the  world  but  the  sound  of 
barricades." 

The  voice  trailed  off  into  nothing. 

To  the  doctor,  charging  slowly  back  and  forth  along 
the  near  deck,  his  hands  locked  behind  him  and  his  face 
bent  slightly  over  his  breast,  there  came  a  queer  sense  of 
separation,  from  Hallett,  from  himself,  his  own  every- 
day acts,  his  own  familiar  aspirations,  from  the  ship 
which  held  him  up  in  the  dark  void  between  two  conti- 
nents. 

What  was  it  all  about  ?  he  asked  himself  over  and  over. 
Each  time  he  passed  the  shadow  in  the  companion-way 
he  turned  his  head,  painfully,  and  as  if  against  his  will. 
Once  he  stopped  squarely  at  the  foot  of  the  cot  and  stood 
staring  down  at  the  figure  there,  faintly  outlined,  mo- 
tionless and  mute.  Sweat  stood  for  a  moment  on  his 
brow,  and  was  gone  in  the  steady  onrush  of  the  wind. 
And  he  was  used  to  death. 

But  Hallett  had  fooled  him.  He  heard  Hallett's  whisper 
creeping  to  him  out  of  the  shadow: — 

"That's  a  bright  star,  doctor." 


CREATIVE  CRITICISM  OF  A  THEMATIC  STORY 
"THE  DARK  HOUR,"  BY  WILBUR  DANIEL  STEELE 

I.     Character. 

As  the  theme  was  by  all  odds  the  chief  consideration 
in  this  story,  the  author's  task  was  to  select  a  character 
that  would  be  the  most  representative  as  well  as  the 
most  authoritative  mouthpiece  for  expressing  the  ideals 
and  hopes  of  the  people  of  the  great  democracies  that  were 
engaged  in  the  World  War.  With  true  artist's  insight 
he  chose  a  wounded,  dying  soldier  returning  to  his  coun- 
try, a  soldier  who,  because  he  had  given  his  all  for  the 
cause  of  democracy,  had  a  right  to  speak,  and  with  some 
show  of  authority,  in  behalf  of  the  great  principles  for 
which  he  had  given  his  life. 

As  only  one  other  character  is  to  appear  in  the  story, 
he  is  very  naturally  the  doctor,  the  only  man  likely  to 
be  alone  with  the  soldier  at  that  time  of  night.  This 
doctor  represents  the  discouraged  and  depressed  spirit 
of  what  was  at  that  time  probably  the  state  of  mind  of 
millions  all  over  the  world. 

These  two  men,  like  the  two  divisions  of  the  Greek 
chorus,  the  strophe  and  antistrophe,  carry  on  a  dialogue 
in  behalf  of  the  entire  world.  Naturally  the  chief  danger 
in  handling  such  a  situation  is  that  the  characters  might 
very  possibly  become  mere  types  and  lose  all  individu- 
ality. Mr.  Steele  avoids  this  by  observing  the  two  prin- 
ciples of  good  dialogue  (see  page  27)  ;  first,  he  knows 

196 


CRITICISM  OF  THEMATIC  STORY       197 

his  characters  well,  and  second,  he  keeps  his  eye  on  them 
when  they  talk.  The  reader  is  aware  that  Mr.  Steele  is 
keeping  his  gaze  upon  the  characters  with  hawklike  in- 
tensity and  is  quick  to  seize  upon  every  characteristic 
movement  or  gesture  in  order  to  prevent  the  long  speeches 
from  becoming  mere  formal  discourses,  and  his  story 
from  becoming  a  didactic  sermon. 

As  the  story  progresses  and  stray  little  details  of  the 
soldier's  past  appear  we  begin  to  realize  that  the  author 
had  his  dossier  pretty  well  in  his  mind  before  the  story 
began. 

A  rather  striking  character  contradiction,  but  a  very 
plausible  one,  is  that  the  weak  and  dying  man  is  the  one 
possessed  of  the  robust  and  conquering  hope,  whereas  the 
doctor,  full  of  strength  and  vigor,  is  rilled  with  gloom 
and  forebodings.. 

2.    Complication. 

This  is  a  story  without  a  complication  as  far  as  the 
immediate  characters  are  concerned.  The  great  environ- 
ing action  of  the  World  War  envelopes  the  characters 
completely,  and  when  the  story  was  first  published  was  a 
living  vital  thing  for  every  reader.  If  we  reduce  it  to 
the  conventional  formula  of  a  problem  and  a  solution  we 
shall  find  the  complication  a  very  abstract  one.  The 
question  is  raised,  How  shall  the  cause  of  democracy  be 
saved?  and  the  answer  is  in  the  form  of  an  appeal  for 
a  more  absolute  faith  and  a  more  consistent  practice  of 
democracy  as  we  see  it.  Stated  in  terms  of  the  thirty- 
six  original  plot  situations  we  can  say  that  it  starts 
with  Situation  30  (Disaster),  proceeds  immediately  to 
6  (The  Enigma),  and  ends  with  effective  use,  not  in 


THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

action  but  in  dramatic  eloquence,  of  22   (Self -Sacrifice 
for  an  Ideal). 

3.  Setting. 

The  symbolic  use  of  setting  in  this  story  is  noteworthy. 
The  dark  night  was  chosen  because  it  symbolized  the 
dark  hour  in  the  great  World  War.  Through  the  dark- 
ness, however,  shines  a  star,  a  star  not  noticed  by  the 
depressed  doctor,  but  which  holds  the  eye  of  the  dying 
soldier.  The  recurrence  of  the  star  to  the  reader's  view 
is  always  coincident  with  the  passionate  vision  of  de- 
mocracy as  revealed  in  the  soldier's  heart. 

4.  Theme. 

The  theme  itself  was  big  and  deserved  a  setting  with 
epic  proportions.  Where  could  Mr.  Steele  have  better 
localized  his  story  than  upon  this  lonely,  darkened  vessel 
pounding  its  way  through  a  submarine-invested  area, 
where  two  men  could  talk  alone  standing  between  sea 
and  sky?  The  writer's  use  of  local  color  is  masterly. 
It  is  a  difficult  thing  to  describe  in  3  new  way  the  old, 
old  story  of  a  ship  going  through  the  waves.  But  the 
author  does  it  and  so  well  that  he  dares  put  it  in  the 
opening  paragraph  to  seize  and  hold  our  attention.  From 
then  on  by  means  of  little  descriptive  touches  here  and 
there  he  never  allows  us  to  forget  for  one  moment 
the  locale  of  the  story.  Mr.  Steele  has  been  familiar  with 
the  sea  from  his  earliest  boyhood. 

5.  Movement. 

This  story  is  an  example  of  slow  movement. 

6.  Viewpoint. 

The  objective  viewpoint  is  used  throughout.  We  see 
and  hear  the  characters  as  actors  upon  a  stage.  We 


CRITICISM  OF  THEMATIC  STORY       199 

gather  what  they  think  and  feel  only  from  their  spoken 
words,  their  movements  and  gestures. 

7.  Where  shall  I  begin? 

The  first  paragraph  gives  us  the  setting,  prepares  the 
stage  so  to  speak  for  the  actors  to  begin  their  speeches, 
an  excellent  plan  for  a  story  made  up  almost  entirely  of 
dialogue.  Incidentally  it  sets  the  tone  for  the  solemn 
discourse  that  is  to  follow,  much  as  the  opening  scene 
on  the  platform  at  Elsinore  sets  the  tone  for  the  story  of 
Hamlet,  and  the  witch  scene  on  the  lonely  moor  strikes 
the  tone  for  the  play  of  Macbeth. 

8.  How  many  episodes  and  how  shall  I  connect  them? 

This  story,  a  story  without  action,  has  but  one  episode. 
Other  noteworthy  stories  which  also  illustrate  the  three 
unities  are  'The  Sire  De  Maletroit's  Door"  and  'The  Last 
Class."  Such  stories  are  excellent  models  for  students  to 
study  as  they  illustrate  how  much  dramatic  material  and 
material  of  deep  human  interest  can  be  packed  into  one 
situation  at  one  time  and  in  one  place. 

9.  How  can  I  make  my  story  seem  plausible? 

The  only  strain  upon  our  credulity  in  a  story  of  this 
kind  where  a  speaker — here  a  soldier — gives  us  so  pro- 
found and  eloquent  a  message,  arises  from  the  question, 
How  could  such  a  man  be  inspired  to  speak  so  deeply 
and  so  truly?  This  is  satisfactorily  answered  by  the  fact 
that  the  speaker  is  a  martyr  for  his  country,  who  pauses 
as  it  were  a  moment  on  the  very  brink  of  eternity  to  speak 
to  us. 


200  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

10.  How  can  I  increase  the  suspense? 

The  fact  that  one  man  is  dying  and  another  is  depressed 
and  that  a  ship  is  running  through  the  dark  night  in 
momentary  danger  of  a  submarine's  torpedo  furnishes 
a  certain  quality  of  suspense.  But  this  external  fact 
fades  into  insignificance  in  the  face  of  the  colossal  sus- 
pense of  an  entire  world  locked  in  a  life  and  death 
grapple.  Probably  in  all  history  the  world  has  never 
experienced  a  night  of  more  overpowering  suspense  than 
when,  weak  and  worn  by  four  years  of  war,  it  saw  the 
conquering  German  armies  start  their  last  great  drive 
upon  Paris.  It  was  at  this  moment  in  history  that  truth 
could  furnish  material  more  dramatic  than  any  fiction. 
Wilbur  Daniel  Steele  seized  the  moment  and  turned  it 
into  a  dramatic  narrative  that  will  probably  rank  for  all 
time  as  the  greatest  short  story  that  has  come  out  of  the 
World  War. 

11.  How  shall  I  give  my  story  an  effective  climax? 

The  climax  of  this  story  is  the  peroration  of  the  dying 
soldier's  last  speech,  the  appeal  for  making  our  dream  of 
democracy  a  more  living  passionate  dream. 

It  would  be  interesting  to  try  to  put  the  Gettysburg 
address  into  the  mouth  of  a  soldier  dying  on  the  battle 
field  the  night  after  the  first  day's  fighting  at  Gettysburg, 
when  the  cause  of  the  North  was  in  its  dark  hour.  If 
you  note  carefully  you  will  see  that  some  of  the  vital 
qualities  of  the  Gettysburg  address,  its  timeliness  as  well 
as  its  eternal  verities,  are  found  in  the  speech  of  the 
dying  soldier  in  "The  Dark  Hour." 

No  student  of  the  short  story  can  afford  to  be  unfa- 
miliar with  the  work  of  Wilbur  Daniel  Steele,  undoubtedly 


CRITICISM  OF  THEMATIC  STORY       201 

America's  greatest  living  short  story  writer.  Those  de- 
siring to  read  a  remarkable  story  of  atmosphere  are  urged 
to  read  "For  They  Know  Not  What  They  Do,"  and  for 
a  study  of  character,  "Footfalls."  The  complication  and 
the  unique  climax  in  each  of  these  stories  also  deserve 
attention. 


PART  III 

SOME  SUGGESTIONS  FOR  MEETING  THE 

CHIEF  PROBLEMS  IN  RHETORIC, 

STYLE  AND  PLOT  BUILDING 


I.    FIRST  AID  IN  REVISION 

I.      WORDS 

We  all  have  three  vocabularies:  one  which  we  use  in 
reading,  one  which  we  use  in  writing  and  formal  dis- 
course, and  one  which  we  use  in  colloquial  speech.  Many 
a  student  whose  range  of  vocabulary,  as  betrayed  by  his 
conversation,  seems  to  end  with  "dope"  and  "guy" 
and  "swell"  actually  knows  by  sight,  when  he  happens 
to  meet  them,  such  words  as  "initiate,"  "accessible," 
"adequate,"  "indicate,"  "convey"  and  "scope." 

For  every  ten  words  he  uses  in  talking,  there  are  one 
hundred  which  he  uses  in  writing,  and  one  thousand 
with  which  he  has  a  "bowing  acquaintance"  in  his  read- 
ing. If  any  man  could  use  accurately  and  expressively 
in  his  writing  and  speaking  one-fourth  of  the  words  which 
he  understands  in  his  reading  he  would  have  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  working  vocabularies  which  a  writer 
ever  possessed.  The  problem  of  diction  resolves  itself, 
then,  into  this:  HOW  SHALL  WE  SWEEP  INTO 
THE  CURRENT  OF  OUR  WRITTEN  AND  ORAL 
SPEECH  THE  VIRILE,  EXPRESSIVE  WORDS 
WITH  WHICH  WE  BECOME  ACQUAINTED  IN 
OUR  READING? 

i.  Wide  reading  in  good  books,  supplemented  by 
frequent  reading  aloud.  To  get  a  timid,  unexercised 
word  across  the  threshold  of  the  lips  by  reading  it  out  loud 
will  in  many  instances  make  that  word,  henceforth,  a 

205 


206  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

brave,  self-reliant  member  of  our  more  active  vocabu- 
lary. John  Ruskin,  who  possessed  a  wonderful  vo- 
cabulary, said  that  he  owed  "all  the  best  of  his  style  in 
literature  to  his  mother's  requiring  him  to  read  the  Bible 
through  each  year  from  cover  to  cover,  pronouncing 
every  word  aloud,  hard  names  and  all." 

2.  Listening  to  good   speakers   or   conversationalists, 
and  using  words  they  have  used  which  impressed  you  as 
being  especially  expressive  or  exact.     This  method  has 
been  consciously  or  unconsciously  employed  by  all  great 
writers   who  have  grown  up  in  homes   of   culture  and 
refinement. 

3.  The  habit  of  looking  up  in  the  dictionary  the  exact 
meaning  of  words.     This  is  one  of  the  best  habits  any 
student  can   form.     A  profitable   supplement  to   this  is 
the   study   of   synonyms.     Clearness   is   often   merely   a 
matter    of    choice    between    synonyms.    Every    student 
should  have  access  to  at  least  one  of  the  following  books : 

Roget :     Thesaurus  of  English  Words  and  Phrases. 

Soule :     Dictionary  of  English  Synonyms. 

Crabb :     English  Synonyms. 

Smith :     Synonyms  Discriminated. 

Fernald:  English  Synonyms,  Antonyms,  and  Prepo- 
sitions. 

March:  Thesaurus  Dictionary  of  the  English  Lan- 
guage. 

4.  Making  lists  of  words  and  idioms  which  are  espe- 
cially virile  and  expressive,  and  deliberately  making  a 
practice  of  employing  two  or  three  of  them  a  day  until 
you  have  increased  your  working  vocabulary  by  one  hun- 
dred words.    Here  are  some  homely,  virile  words  which 
might  serve  to  start  you   off:     Antic,  balk    (v),  blink, 
brawl,    budge,   bungle,    cant    (n),   chuckle,   churl,    clap, 


FIRST  AID  IN  REVISION  207 

cling,  clog,  clutch,  curt,  daft,  daub,  dawdle,  dolt,  drone  (v), 
drub,  fag  (v),  fetch,  foist,  fume,  fuss,  gabble,  gad,  garble, 
glib,  glum,  glut,  grub  (v),  grudge,  gulp,  hag,  haggle, 
hearsay,  heave,  hoax,  hobnob,  hodge-podge,  hood-wink, 
huff,  inkling,  inglenook,  jaunty,  jeer,  job,  jog,  jolt,  ker- 
nel, knack,  lag,  lank,  leer,  loll,  lout,  lug,  makeshift,  maul, 
mope,  mess,  mumble,  nag  (v),  new-fangled,  niggardly, 
nudge,  odds,  offset,  outlandish,  outstanding,  pat  (a), 
peevish,  pert,  plod,  prig,  quack,  qualm,  quash,  quirk,  quit, 
ram  (v)  rank  (a),  ransack,  rant,  rip,  romp,  rot,  ruck, 
sag,  scrawl,  scramble,  scribble,  scuffle,  sham,  shipshape, 
shift,  shirk,  shred,  slam,  slink,  slipshod,  sluggard,  smash, 
smother,  smug,  sneak,  snivel,  sop,  spurt,  squabble,  squat, 
squeamish,  stuff,  sulk,  tang,  tawdry,  tether,  thrash, 
trickle,  tussle,  twit,  underling,  vent,  vixen,  warp,  wheedle, 
wince,  wrangle.  In  this  connection  read  Palmer's  essay 
on  "Self -Cultivation  in  English"  and  note  the  emphasis 
he  lays  upon  "audacity"  in  the  use  of  words. 

Here  are  some  homely,  virile  idioms  which  you  do  not 
use  enough:  By  hook  or  crook,  a  dead  lift,  the  quick  and 
the  dead,  a  man  of  straw,  touch  and  go,  not  worth  his 
salt,  neither  fish,  flesh,  nor  fowl,  on  tenter-hooks,  penny 
wise  and  pound  foolish,  at  odds  over  (something),  tit 
for  tat,  cheek  by  jowl,  read  between  the  lines,  leave  no 
stone  unturned,  put  a  flea  in  his  ear,  wash  your  hands 
of  that,  take  him  down  a  peg,  hark  back  to  that,  make 
a  cat's  paw  of,  mince  matters,  knuckle  under,  set  one's 
teeth  on  edge,  draw  in  one's  horn,  have  him  on  the  hip, 
turn  tail,  cast  in  one's  teeth,  make  him  sing  another  tune, 
hug  the  shore,  pay  the  piper,  sit  between  two  stools,  he 
has  other  fish  to  fry,  there  will  be  blood  on  the  moon. 


208  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

II.       THE    SENTENCE 

The  student  who  regularly  employs  sentences  that  are 
babyishly  short,  or,  what  is  equally  bad,  uses  sentences 
that  are  long,  rambling  and  incoherent,  where  the  verbs 
do  not  agree  with  their  subjects  and  modifiers  are  far 
separated  from  the  words  they  modify,  is  not  ready  for 
this  book.  Neither  is  the  student  who  puts  commas  at 
the  end  of  sentences  and  periods  at  the  end  of  clauses. 

For  all  other  students,  no  matter  how  brilliant  their 
writing  may  be,  such  a  chapter  as  this  is  needed  in  a  book 
of  this  kind.  For  the  sentence  is  the  piece  de  resistance 
of  all  students  in  college.  In  offering  advice  on  the  sen- 
tence, care  has  been  taken  to  select  only  the  most  im- 
portant and  fundamental  matters  upon  the  observation 
of  which  depends  the  achievement  of  that  finesse  of  style 
which  we  all  in  our  hearts  desire.  Emphasis  throughout 
this  chapter  is  laid  not  upon  the  arbitrary  rule,  or  the 
external  form,  as  much  as  upon  the  process  of  thought 
which  makes  the  particular  rule  psychologically  logical 
and  necessary.  Before  we  have  rhythm,  emphasis,  antith- 
esis, and  climax  in  sentence  structure  we  must  have 
rhythm,  emphasis,  antithesis  and  climax  in  thought.  What 
has  made  the  rhetoric  of  sentence  structure  so  difficult  to 
master  in  the  past  has  been  the  tendency  of  authors  of  text 
books  to  treat  it  as  a  body  of  abstract  rules  to  be  mem- 
orized, instead  of  as  an  integral  part  of  the  creative 
process.  What  we  need  is  not  a  code,  but  a  real  psychol- 
ogy  of  use;  not  many  rules  but  a  few  principles  which 
will  help  us  to  express  ourselves  with  greater  clearness 
and  emphasis.  We  must  remember  that  literature  was 
written  long  before  text  books  were  invented,  and  that 
it  is  quite  possible  that  one  might  become  a  successful 


FIRST  AID  IN  REVISION  209 

writer  without  ever  having  seen  a  rhetoric  or  memorized 
a  rule. 

The  first  step  to  take  in  mastering  the  art  of  the  sen- 
tence is  the  following : 

Try  to  cultivate  a  feeling  for  brevity,  compactness  and 
unity  in  your  style  just  as  you  strive  to  cultivate  a  feel- 
ing for  neatness  in  your  personal  appearance.  Foster  a 
dislike  for  sentences  with  clumsy,  slovenly  phrasing,  just 
as  you  do  for  uncombed  hair  or  an  untied  necktie.  Try 
to  see  in  every  sentence  a  single  central  idea,  and  try  to 
shape  the  phrasing  so  that  that  central  idea  will  stand 
out.  Stevenson  used  the  word  "whittling"  as  applied  to 
style  and  that  is  a  word  which  will  serve  us  well  here. 
Whittle  away  the  superfluous  phraseology  from  your 
sentences  so  that  the  central  idea  will  emerge  as  keen  and 
sharp  as  the  point  of  a  pencil.  To  be  more  specific, 
wherever  possible  reduce  compound  sentences  to  complex 
sentences,  and  complex  sentences  to  simple  sentences. 
Notice  the  way  slovenliness  gives  place  to  order  in  the 
sentences  below: 

Complex  to  simple:  We  visited  cities  which  were  smoky 
and  noisy. 

We  visited  very  smoky,  noisy  cities. 

Compound  to  complex:  To  please  his  wife  he  entered 
politics,  and  he  did  not  relish  notoriety  in  any  form. 

To  please  his  wife  he  entered  politics,  although  he  did  not 
relish  notoriety  in  any  form. 

Having  made  this  attitude  of  mind  your  own  you  can 
safely  proceed  to  a  more  careful  consideration  of  what 
might  be  called  the  four  post-graduate  problems  of  the 
sentence.  I  shall  introduce  these  to  you  in  the  words  of 


210  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

two  of  our  leading  teachers  of  rhetoric  who  have  done 
much  to  codify  and  clarify  the  intricacies  of  our  English 
language.  "The  finesse  of  style,"  writes  Arlo  Bates  in 
Talks  on  Writing  English,  "may  be  said  to  depend  largely, 
and  indeed  chiefly  ...  on  the  use  made  of  participles, 
particles  and  parallel  construction."  "In  the  whole  range 
of  composition,"  writes  J.  F.  Genung  in  The  Working 
Principles  of  Rhetoric,  "there  is  no  process  oftener  mis- 
managed than  the  process  of  retrospective  reference." 

Let  us  consider  each  of  these  four  problems  in  turn. 

I.  Participles.  "The  participle  is  the  most  delicate 
part  of  speech  in  the  language,"  writes  Arlo  Bates,  "and 
as  such  is  the  most  frequently  abused  or  misused."  Its 
misuse  lies  in  failing  to  make  it  take  the  same  subject 
and  time  as  the  principal  verb.  A  participle  which  has 
lost  the  word  upon  which  it  should  properly  depend  is 
about  the  most  helpless  little  thing  in  the  English  lan- 
guage. Perhaps  the  easiest  way  to  fix  permanently  in 
your  mind  the  rule  governing  the  participle  is  to  think 
of  the  participle  as  a  small  child  that  is  always  accom- 
panied by,  and  dependent  on  its  mother. 

Being  so  much  in  earnest,  it  is  a  pity  to  treat  him  slight- 
ingly. (Here  the  poor  child  has  lost  its  parent.) 

Being  so  much  in  earnest,  he  should  not  be  slighted.  (Fam- 
ily reunited  at  last.) 

Confusing:  He  turned  and  fled  from  the  crowd,  squalling 
and  squawking.  (He  or  the  crowd  were  squalling  and 
squawking?) 

Clear:    Squalling  and  squawking,  he  fled  from  the  crowd. 

Confusing :    He  hardly  spoke  to  me  hurrying  down  town. 

Clear:    Hurrying  down  town,  he  hardly  spoke  to  me. 


FIRST  AID  IN  REVISION  211 

By  the  above  it  is  seen  that  it  is  safer  to  use  the  parti- 
cipial phrase  to  introduce  the  sentence  than  to  close  it. 

Because  participial  constructions  are  so  frequent  and 
of  such  great  service  every  student  should  take  pains  to 
master  the  following  principle: 

THE  PRESENT  PARTICIPLE  ALWAYS  TAKES  THE  SAME 
SUBJECT  AS  THE  MAIN  VERB  AND  REFERS  TO  THE  SAME 
TIME  AS  THE  MAIN  VERB. 

II.  Particles.     A  frequent  habit  of  college  students, 
due  possibly  to  the  American  mania  for  finding  short 
cuts,  is  the  tendency  to  omit  little  words  that  are  really 
needed  to  make  the  thought  clear. 

Beloit  is  nearer  Galesburg  than  Grinnell. 
Than  to  Grinnell  ?     Than  Grinnell  is  ? 
The  thin  and  fat  man  were  coming  up  the  steps. 
Whether  as  a  man,  a  husband,  or  poet,  his  steps  led  him 
downward. 

The  tendency  to  omit  the  little  articles  "a"  and  "the" 
is  the  most  frequent  form  of  breaking  this  rule.  Another 
frequent  error  is  that  of  making  a  principal  verb  in  one 
part  of  a  sentence  serve  in  another  when  the  same  form 
is  not  grammatical  in  both  parts,  as — 

He  did  what  many  others  have  and  are  doing. 

The  fundamental  rule  to  observe  here  is :  NO  ESSENTIAL 

WORD    WHICH    IS    NOT    SPECIFICALLY    IMPLIED    SHOULD    BE 
LEFT  OUT  OF  THE   SENTENCE. 

III.  Parallel  Construction.     Parallel  structure  is  pe- 
culiarly useful  in  public  discourse  and  no  one  who  hopes 
to  become  a  speaker  should  fail  to  master  it.    As  a  matter 
of  fact  oral  eloquence  would  be  impossible  without  it. 
Listen  to  the  best  speakers  and  mark  well  the  use  they 


212  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

make  of  this  element  of  structure.  Sharpen  your  eyes 
for  parallel  structure  by  reading  passages  that  exemplify 
it  and  illustrate  it.  Here  are  a  few  examples  for  which 
I  am  indebted  to  Professor  Arlo  Bates : 

Meanwhile  whether  as  a  man,  a  husband,  or  a  poet,  his 
steps  led  him  downward. — Stevenson:  Some  Aspects  of 
Robert  Burns. 

How  many  college  students  would  have  omitted  that 
last  article  and  thus  have  sinned  against  the  law  of 
parallelism !  Below  we  see  parallelism  in  the  use  of  the 
preposition : 

God  is  not  the  God  of  the  dead,  but  of  the  living. — 
Matt,  xxii :  32. 

One  would  have  to  read  over  the  following  passage 
very  carefully  to  note  all  the  delicate  uses  of  parallel 
structure  employed  therein. 

A  University  is  a  place  of  concourse  whither  students  come 
from  every  quarter  for  every  kind  of  knowledge.  .  .  .  All 
the  riches  of  the  land,  and  of  the  earth,  are  carried  up  thither; 
there  are  the  best  markets,  and  there  the  best  workmen.  It 
is  the  center  of  trade,  the  supreme  court  of  fashion,  the 
umpire  of  rival  talents,  and  the  standard  of  things  rare  and 
precious.  It  is  the  place  for  seeing  galleries  of  first-rate 
pictures,  and  for  hearing  wonderful  voices  and  performers 
of  transcendent  skill.  It  is  the  place  for  great  preachers, 
great  orators,  great  nobles,  great  statesmen.  In  the  nature 
of  things,  greatness  and  unity.go  together ;  excellence  implies 
a  center.  And  such  ...  is  a  University. — Newman. 

The  rule  of  parallel  structure  is  this:     ELEMENTS  OF 

THOUGHT  THAT  ARE  PAIRED  TOGETHER  OR  THAT  ANSWER 
TO  EACH  OTHER  SHOULD  MAKE  CLEAR  THAT  RELATION- 
SHIP BY  SIMILARITY  IN  FORM. 


FIRST  AID  IN  REVISION  213 

For  excellent  examples  of  parallel  structure  see  the 
sections  in  MacCracken  and  Sandison's  Manual  of  Good 
English.  For  further  discussion  of  particles,  participles 
and  parallel  structure  the  student  is  referred  to  Arlo 
Bates,  Talks  on  Writing  English,  Second  Series. 

IV.  Reference.  The  reason  why  so  many  college  stu- 
dents are  guilty  of  failing  to  make  clear  the  antecedents  of 
the  adverbs,  pronouns  and  phrases  of  reference,  which  they 
make  such  free  use  of,  is  due  to  a  conflict  between  theory 
and  practice.  The  reference  is  theoretically  to  an  idea, 
but  the  laws  of  rhetoric  demand  that  the  reference  should 
always  be  to  some  particular  word. 

When  George  came  in  he  asked  him  to  .tell  him  why  he  had 
been  so  late. 

Do  not  feed  the  animals  in  this  cage ;  it  is  not  permitted. 

The  horse  is  fast  becoming  extinct,  which  is  a  pity  for  they 
are  such  beautiful  animals. 

Shakespeare's  plays  will  live ;  he  presents  human  nature  as 
it  is. 

He  was  a  brave  man,  and  this  made  his  daughter  worry  for 
his  safety. 

To  correct  the  faulty  references  above,  all  that  is  re- 
quired is  that  we  reduce  theory  to  practice  by  supplying 
the  missing  word. 

When  George  came  in  his  father  asked  him,  "Why  have 
you  been  so  late?" 

Do  not  feed  the  animals  in  this  cage.  Such  acts  are  not 
permitted.  (Or,  Feeding  the  animals  is  not  permitted.) 

The  horse  is  fast  becoming  extinct,  which  is  a  pity,  for  it  is 
such  a  beautiful  animal. 

The  plays  of  Shakespeare  are  going  to  live  forever,  because 
the  writer  has  presented  in  them  human  nature  as  it  is. 

He  was  a  brave  man,  and  this  fact  made  his  daughter  worry 
for  his  safety. 


214  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

Professor  Genung,  who  has  singled  out  this  problem 
as  the  most  serious  one  met  by  students  of  writing,  offers 
a  rather  interesting  remedy. 

"The  mismanagement  results  not  from  ignorance,  but  from 
haste  and  carelessness;  the  writer,  in  his  ardor  to  continue 
his  thought,  does  not  stay  to  look  back,  but  trusts  to  chance 
for  accuracy,  or  puts  the  burden  of  interpretation  on  the 
reader.  It  is  of  especial  importance  in  this  process  to  form 
the  habit,  in  the  case  of  any  backward  referring  word,  of 
looking  back  at  once  and  making  sure  of  its  adjustments 
before  proceeding.  Such  a  grammatical  habit,  once  thor- 
oughly established,  does  not  check  or  retard  the  current  of 
the  thinking,  and  will  save  much  trouble  of  recasting  after- 
wards. ...  As  in  a  game  the  ball  is  not  only  played  but  left 
in  position  for  the  next  play,  so  in  the  phrasing  of  the  thought 
a  word  that  is  to  be  referred  to  should  be  so  placed  or  treated 
that  the  reader  may  naturally  think  back  to  it  from  the 
referring  word.  The  spontaneous  effort  to  leave  the  ante- 
cedent in  favorable  position  is  one  of  the  results  of  the 
grammatical  habit  mentioned  above." 

The  rule  of  reference  can  be  expressed  as   follows: 

DO  NOT  USE  A  PRONOUN  TO  REFER  TO  A  GENERAL  IDEA; 
SUPPLY  A  DEFINITE  ANTECEDENT  OR  ABANDON  THE  PRO- 
NOUN. 

A  sentence  which  illustrates  every  one  of  these  four 
problems  of  the  sentence  is  given  below.  Note  the  par- 
ticipial opening,  the  retrospective  reference  near  the  mid- 
dle, the  careful  inclusion  of  the  article  in  the  last  clause, 
and  the  parallelism  used  three  times.  Then  memorize 
the  sentence  and  tuck  it  away  in  the  pigeon-holes  of  your 
mind  for  ready  reference  whenever  these  problems  come 
up  again. 


FIRST  AID  IN  REVISION  215 

"Speaking  only  of  his  command  over  language  and  metre, 
I  have  a  right  to  reaffirm,  and  to  show  by  many  illustrations, 
that  he  is  the  most  sovereign  of  rhythmists;  and  yet,  never- 
theless, as  a  thinker,  a  philosopher  and  a  Christian  he  failed 
miserably." 

Variety  in  Sentence  Structure 

More  important  than  the  mastery  of  the  various  parts 
of  sentence  structure  is  the  use  of  variety  of  sentence 
structure  in  your  writing.  "Be  infinitely  various," 
counsels  Stevenson. 

Monotonous  sentence  structure  in  written  composition, 
just  like  monotonous  inflection  of  the  voice  in  conversa- 
tion, wearies  a  reader  or  listener.  But  when  a  man  talks 
with  "expression,"  as  we  call  it,  his  conversation  never 
wearies.  And  likewise  when  a  man  writes  with  expres- 
sion, that  is  to  say  with  emphasis,  his  writing  does  not 
weary.  In  short,  the  cure  for  monotony  is  emphasis. 

What  is  the  law  of  emphasis?  "In  the  normally  con- 
structed sentence,"  writes  Fulton,  "the  order  of  the  con- 
stituent parts  is,  subject,  verb,  object,  and  verb  modi- 
fiers; and  when  this  order  is  followed,  no  especial  em- 
phasis is  given  to  any  one  part.  .  .  .  Special  emphasis 
can  be  given  to  any  particular  part  only  by  placing  that 
part  in  a  position  it  would  not  normally  occupy.  Thus 
a  verb-modifier  placed  at  the  end  of  the  sentence  is  only 
slightly  emphasized;  placed  at  the  beginning  it  is  made 
strongly  emphatic.  Hence  the  general  rule  to  secure 
emphasis  in  the  sentence  is,  change  the  natural  order  of 
the  parts  and  bring  the  part  emphasized  to  one  or  the 
other  of  the  naturally  prominent  positions  in  the  sentence, 
namely  the  beginning  or  the  end." 


216  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

Variety  in  sentence  structure  will,  therefore,  be  satis- 
factorily attained  in  most  cases  if  the  writer  carefully 
attends  to  the  placing  of  his  emphasis. 

The  student  should  strive  also  to  attain  variety  by  a 
judicious  mingling  of  short  and  long  sentences.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  one  of  the  most  effective  ways  of  making 
a  point  emphatic  is  to  insert  a  short  sentence  among 
several  long  ones.  The  short  sentence  is  invaluable  for 
making  an  important  point  stand  out,  for  summing  up 
some  issue  that  has  been  discussed  at  length,  for  pointing 
transitions.  However,  it  is  lacking  in  rhythm  and  sus- 
tained power;  it  has  no  roll,  no  momentum.  The  long 
sentence  is  especially  adapted  for  giving  details,  expan- 
sions, colorings,  and  shadings  of  thought  already  in  the 
reader's  mind.  It  also  can  possess  rhythm,  climax,  ca- 
dence, massiveness,  impressiveness.  Combine  the  two 
forms  and  the  writer  secures  the  crispness  of  the  short 
and  the  sustained  momentum  of  the  long. 


Punctuation  of  the  Sentence 

You  will  find  in  A.  S.  Hill's  Rhetoric  thirty-six  rules 
given  for  the  use  of  the  comma.  Following  the  plan  of 
reducing  rules  to  those  principles  which  are  integral 
parts  of  the  creative  process  we  shall  find  that  there  are — 
at  the  very  most — only  four  "rules"  that  deserve  attention 
and  that  these  cover  every  known  use  of  the  comma. 

i.  Commas  separate  equal  members  in  the  sequence 
of  words  or  groups  of  words. 

He  was  a  tall,  strong,  courageous  man. 
He  healed  the  sick,  he  relieved  the  poor,  he  made  the  blind 
to  see. 


FIRST  AID  IN  REVISION  217 

2.  All   non-essential    clauses    should   be   enclosed   by 
commas;  essential  clauses  never.     Stated  in  other  words: 
Any   long   parenthetic   expression    that    can   be    omitted 
without  rendering  the  remainder  of  the  sentence  obscure, 
and  any  short  parenthetic  expression  of  which  the  paren- 
thetic nature  is  strongly  marked,  are  set  off  by  commas. 

This  power  rests  with  the  President,  the  head  of  the  army. 
(Appositive  expression.) 

Yes,  Mr.  Brown,  I  enjoyed  it.     (Vocative  expression.) 

Mr.  Adams,  who  was  president  of  the  firm,  put  his  veto 
upon  the  order.  (Non-restrictive  relative  clause.) 

"Come  on,"  he  said;  "we  want  you."  (Words  introducing 
a  quotation.) 

Well,  I  shall  consider  it.     (Mild  interjection.) 

It  is  of  paramount  importance  that  every  student  should 
understand  what  is  meant  by  restrictive  and  non-restric- 
tive. The  general  principle  is  that  whatever  can  not  be 
removed  without  destroying  the  sense  of  the  statement 
is  restrictive  and  should  not  be  pointed  with  punctua- 
tion marks.  Under  non-restrictive  we  include  all  that 
could  be  omitted  without  destroying  the  central  mean- 
ing. 

Restrictive:    The  man  across  the  street  called  to  me. 
Non-restrictive:    Mr.  Brown,  who  is  very  peculiar,  called 
to  me. 

This  is  by  far  the  most  important  and  difficult  rule  of 
the  comma  and  deserves  careful  study. 

3.  A  comma  may  be  used  to  set  off  words,  phrases 
or  clauses  that  anticipate  their  natural  order.     As  the 
accepted  order  in  a  sentence  is  for  the  subject  to  come 
first,  this  rule  practically  means  that  any  phrase  which 
precedes  the  subject  is  ordinarily  set  off  by  commas. 


218  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

In  spite  of  the   fact  that  his  daughter  was  very  young, 
Judge  Smith  insisted  on  sending  her  away  to  school. 
If  I  can,  I  will  tell  him. 
When  daylight  fades,  the  owl  comes  forth. 

4.  When  the  subject  of  the  second  part  of  a  com- 
pound sentence  is  different  from  the  subject  of  the  first 
part,  or  if  the  sentence  is  very  long,  a  comma  is  required 
before  the  connecting  and  or  or.  But  always  requires 
a  punctuation  mark,  often  the  semi-colon. 

The  two  millionaires  left  the  inn,  and  the  poor  inn-keeper 
breathed  a  sigh  of  relief. 

The  illness  was  not  serious,  but  the  doctor  insisted  that  he 
must  remain  in  bed. 

Rules  3  and  4  seem  to  be  going  out  of  fashion  among 
modern  writers  excepting  where  absolutely  necessary  to 
make  the  meaning  clear.  For  instance,  in  the  following 
sentences  some  writers  would  have  commas,  most  would 
not: 

Hurrying  to  the  gangway  he  called  down  to  the  men  below. 

Seeing  that  he  was  too  late  to  stop  the  train  he  returned 
home. 

The  book  was  published  on  the  thirtieth  and  we  sent  out 
our  circulars  on  the  twenty-fifth. 

The  Semi-colon.  The  semi-colon  is  like  the  utility 
baseball  player  who  can  play  equally  well  in  the  outfield 
or  the  infield,  depending  upon  the  particular  need  of  the 
occasion. 

A.  As  substitute  for  a  comma  when  the  writer  wishes 
to  separate  two  or  more  co-ordinate  members  of  a  simple 
or  complex  sentence  when  those  members,  or  some  of 
them,  have  commas  within  themselves. 


FIRST  AID  IN  REVISION  219 

He  said  that  he  was  ready  to  join  the  army;  that  his 
mother,  being  very  ill,  he  had  delayed  his  reporting  for  serv- 
ice before;  and  that  he  would  consider  it  a  personal  favor  if 
he  could  be  placed  in  one  of  the  first  units  to  be  sent  to  France. 

B.  As  a  substitute  for  the  period  when  the  writer 
wishes  to  group  together  into  a  compound  sentence  two  or 
more  sentences  that  have  a  distinct  and  readily- felt  unity. 

He  did  not  go  to  college;  he  went  into  business  instead. 

I  came;  I  saw;  I  conquered. 

Herodotus  has  written  something  better,  perhaps,  than  the 
best  history;  but  he  has  not  written  a  good  history;  he  is, 
from  the  first  to  the  last  chapter,  an  inventor. 

The  Colon.  There  is  one  principle  governing  the  use  of 
the  colon:  the  colon  points  forward  to  something  which 
is  to  come. 

That  which  is  to  come  may  be  merely  the  body  of  a 
letter  following  the  salutation,  or  a  list  of  items  on  a  bill 
of  lading;  but,  when  skillfully  used  in  literary  composi- 
tion, this  looking  forward  is  often  dramatic  in  effect, 
suggesting  something  of  fulfillment,  even  of  climax,  as 
illustrated  by  this  descriptive  line  taken  from  a  modern 
novel:  "To  the  left  in  the  distance,  she  could  see  some- 
thing shining:  a  broad  disk  of  light  in  which  narrow 
shadows  pivoted  around  like  spokes  in  a  wheel." 

III.      THE    PARAGRAPH 

Paragraphing,  like  punctuation,  is  an  invention  of  the 
moderns  to  enable  readers  to  see  at  a  glance  the  chief 
breaks  in  the  thought  by  means  of  graphic  breaks  for  the 
eye.  If  properly  employed  paragraphing  gives  as  much 
assistance  in  understanding  a  whole  composition  as  punc- 
tuation gives  in  understanding  a  sentence. 


220  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

An  average  paragraph  in  the  best  modern  English 
varies  between  150  and  250  words.  This  matter  of  length 
is  very  important  and  frequently  determines  for  a  writer 
whether  to  develop  a  topic  further,  omit  it  altogether,  or 
combine  it  with  another  topic  pertinent  to  it. 

Paragraphing  is  used  for  the  following  purposes: 

(a)  Showing  a  change  of  thought  or  subject. 

(b)  Calling  attention  to  a  particularly  important  thought. 

(c)  Resting  the  eye,  and  breaking  up  a  page  to  prevent  its 

assuming  a  formidable  appearance. 

(d)  Indicating  a  change  of  speaker  in  conversation. 

EXERCISES    IN    RHETORIC 

For  a  student  who  is  especially  weak  in  the  fundamentals  of 
rhetoric  the  following  exercises  are  recommended: 

1.  Word-study :    Require  a  student,  weak  in  vocabulary, 

to  read  "Clayhanger"  and  collect  one  hundred 
simple  idiomatic  words  and  phrases  that  are  clear, 
accurate  and  suggestive. 

2.  Sentence  Study :    For  exercises  in  sentence  structure, 

especially  in  sentence  rhythm  and  variety  of  sen- 
tence structure,  see  Exercises  under  Self  Cultiva- 
tion in  Style,  page  223.  Study  in  Punctuation: 
Require  a  student,  weak  in  punctuation,  to  read  the 
selections  on  pages  225-232  and  put  above  every 
comma  the  number  of  the  principle  it  illustrates, 
and  above  every  semi-colon  the  letter  (A  or  B) 
which  indicates  its  use. 

3.  Paragraph  Study :    Read  "The  Dark  Hour,"  and  op- 

posite each  paragraph  place  the  letter  (a),  (b), 
(c)  or  (d)  to  indicate  what  purpose  it  serves. 


II.     SELF-CULTIVATION  IN  STYLE 

"James  Russell  Lowell  says  in  his  Essay  on  Chaucer 
that  a  poet  learns  to  write,  just  as  a  child  learns  to  speak 
by  watching  the  lips  of  those  who  can  speak  better  than 
he  can.  It  was  so  with  Chaucer.  Franklin  tells  us  in 
his  Autobiography  that  he  formed  his  own  style  by  imi- 
tating the  Spectators  of  Addison  and  Steele.  Dr.  John- 
son says  in  a  passage  which  is  not,  but  ought  to  be,  fa- 
miliar to  every  school  boy:  ''Whoever  wishes  to  attain 
an  English  style,  familiar  but  not  coarse,  and  elegant 
but  not  ostentatious,  must  give  his  days  and  nights  to  the 
volumes  of  Addison.'  Lamb  got  his  manner  from  Sir 
Thomas  Browne.  Stevenson  relates  in  detail  how  he 
taught  himself  his  trade  by  a  multitude  of  monkey  tricks 
based  on  a  list  of  authors  ranging  from  Lamb  to  Hazlitt 
and  from  Baudelaire  to  Obermann.  Even  Jack  London 
confesses  that  he  acquired  his  style  by  studying  modern 
American  magazines  and  newspapers  nineteen  hours  a 
day. 

"Literature  bristles  with  evidence  that  other  writers 
have  done  likewise.  The  Mneid  is  an  imitation,  a  very 
palpable  imitation,  of  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey.  Dante 
openly  proclaims  that  Virgil  was  his  master.  In  Paradise 
Lost,  by  substituting  Satan  for  yEneas,  Eve  for  Dido, 
and  Hell  for  Africa,  John  Milton  produced  a  parody 
more  impressive  than  his  model,  but  still  a  parody.  Ten- 
nyson confesses  that  his  epic,  his  King  Arthur,  consists 
of  faint  Homeric  echoes.  It  seems  clear  that  ^Eschylus 
learned  from  Pindar;  Sophocles  from  yEschylus;  Eu- 
ripides from  Sophocles;  Racine,  Corneille,  and  Milton 
from  all  three. 

'  'Shakespeare  himself,  the  imperial,'  says  Stevenson, 
'proceeds  directly  from  a  school.'  By  judiciously  imitat- 
ing sporting  Kyd  on  the  one  hand  and  on  the  other 

221 


222  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

studying  the  cadences  of  'Marlowe's  mighty  line/  he 
learned  to  steer  from  grave  to  gay,  from  lively  to  severe, 
in  a  fashion  which  overjoyed  all  his  contemporaries  except 
Greene,  who  expressed  his  grief  by  calling  the  predatory 
William  'an  upstart  crow  beautified  with  our  feathers/ 
It  was  true.  It  is  also  true  that  Wilhelm  Tell  and  Beket 
remind  one  in  countless  ways  of  Macbeth  and  Hamlet. 
Theocritus  taught  Virgil  the  art  of  writing  bucolics, 
Milton  the  plan  of  Lycidas,  and  Tennyson  the  melodies 
of  CEnone.  The  influence  of  Demosthenes  is  clear  enough 
in  the  Areopagitica;  and  the  plan  of  Burke's  Conciliation 
is  essentially  the  same  as  that  of  Cicero's  Manilian  Law. 
'The  more  I  wonder  the  less  I  can  imagine/  wrote  Francis 
Jeffrey  to  Thomas  B.  Macaulay,  'where  you  picked  up 
that  style/  If  he  had  investigated  a  little  more  and 
wondered  a  little  less,  he  would  have  found  the  answer 
in  Demosthenes  and  Cicero,  in  Thucydides  and  Tacitus, 
in  Homer  and  Dante,  in  the  King  James  Bible,  in  Milton, 
Addison,  and  Burke.  Macaulay's  sentence  structure  has 
been  aped  with  some  success  by  John  Richard  Green,  John 
Churton  Collins,  John  Bach  McMaster,  James  B.  Angell, 
and  Sir  George  Otto  Trevelyan,  not  to  mention  several 
hundreds  of  less  skillful  disciples,  while  the  admirable 
construction  of  his  framewords  and  the  clearness  of  his 
paragraph  structures  have  influenced  many  other  imitators, 
including  Francis  Parkman  and  John  Fiske.  Even 
Thomas  Carlyle  confesses  that  he  got  his  style  by  imitating 
his  father's  speech.  Did  Irving  learn  nothing  from 
Addison,  Bryant  from  Wordsworth,  Lowell  from  Tenny- 
son, Whittier  from  Burns,  or  Holmes  from  Pope  ?  Think 
of  Burns's  obligations  to  Spenser,  Pope,  and  Fergusson. 
Indeed,  the  only  poets  I  am  accustomed  to  think  of  as  not 
being  imitators  are  Homer  and  Rudyard  Kipling.  But 
has  not  the  latter  imitated  Will  Carleton  and  Bret  Harte  ? 
And  does  not  he  somewhere  sing  of  the  former: 

'When  'Omer  smote  'is  bloomin'  lyre, 
'E'd  'card  men  sing  by  land  and  sea; 

And  wot  'e  thought  'e  might  require 
'E  went  and  took,  the  same  as  me/ 


SELF-CULTIVATION  IN  STYLE          223 

"It  would  be  easy  to  expand  this  catalogue,  but  it  is 
needless.  The  conclusion  is  irresistible.  The  way  to 
learn  to  write  is  to  use  models." — Edwin  L.  Miller  in 
Notes  on  Teaching  English  Composition. 

Benjamin  Franklin  and  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  are 
the  classic  examples  of  writers  who  owe  their  style  largely 
to  the  imitative  study  of  models.  True,  these  two  men, 
like  all  the  others  mentioned  above  by  Mr.  Miller,  ap- 
proached their  task  with  a  purposeful  initiative  which 
enabled  them  to  assimilate  their  models  and  not  allow 
the  models  to  assimilate  them.  The  danger  of  a  feeble, 
flabby,  indifferent  attack  upon  the  style  of  great  writers 
may  be  that  the  models  may  assimilate  the  student.  By 
that  I  mean  the  student  may  merely  garner  mannerisms 
and  faults,  making  his  style  affected  instead  of  effective. 
But  such  a  danger  is  very  slight — and  if  the  student  care- 
fully follows  the  directions  which  follow  he  will  derive 
only  strength  from  the  exercises.  There  is  no  other  exer- 
cise which  will  so  increase  a  student's  working  vocabulary, 
add  rhythm  and  grace  to  his  sentence  structure  and  shake 
him  out  of  his  ruts  generally. 

DIRECTIONS    FOR  EXERCISES    IN    STYLE 
BUILDING 

I.  Read  over  each  passage  first  for  the  subject  matter, 
jotting  down  a  very  brief  outline  of  the  thought,  prefer- 
ably a  catch  word  for  each  individual  sentence — nothing 
more.  If  he  desires,  the  student  may  write  the  word 
"long"  or  "short"  after  each  catch  word  to  indicate 
whether  the  sentence  is  long  or  short.  But  this  is  not 
necessary,  as  it  is  not  the  exact  sentences  that  should  be 
reproduced,  or  the  exact  words,  but  rather  the  thought 


224  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

so  that  he  may  afterwards  compare  his  attempt  with  the 
original  and  see  where  he  has  fallen  short  or  has  improved 
upon  the  model.  After  he  has  written  a  few  of  these 
exercises  the  student  may  do  away  with  the  outline  alto- 
gether, as  he  will  be  able  to  make  a  mental  outline  of  the 
thought  as  he  reads  the  passage. 

2.  Following  the  first  reading  there  should  be  a  second 
reading,  this  time  special  attention  being  given  to  the 
vocabulary,  especially  the  new  words  or  words  used  in 
new  and  expressive  combinations. 

3.  Before  you  write  your  transcript  read  the  passage 
a  third  time,  this  time  aloud,  giving  yourself  up  com- 
pletely to  the  measures,   rhythms   and   cadences   of   the 
sentences. 

THEN   SHUT  THE  BOOK  AND   WRITE  DOWN  THE  PASSAGE 
FROM    MEMORY. 


SELF-CULTIVATION  IN  STYLE          225 


I.  "The  rain  was  still  falling,  sweeping  down  from  the 
half -seen  hills,  wreathing  the  wooded  peaks  with  a  gray 
garment  of  mist,  and  filling  the  valley  with  a  whitish  cloud. 
"It  fell  around  the  house  drearily.  It  ran  down  into 
the  tubs  placed  to  catch  it,  dripped  from  the  mossy  pump, 
and  drummed  on  the  upturned  milk-pails,  and  upon  the 
brown  and  yellow  beehives  under  the  maple-trees.  The 
chickens  seemed  depressed,  but  the  irrepressible  blue  jay 
screamed  amid  it  all,  with  the  same  insolent  spirit,  his 
plumage  untarnished  by  the  wet.  The  barnyard  showed 
a  horrible  mixture  of  mud  and  mire,  through  which 
Howard  caught  glimpses  of  the  men,  slumping  to  and  fro 
without  more  additional  protection  than  a  ragged  coat  and 
a  shapeless  felt  hat." — Hamlin  Garland:  Main  Travelled 
Roads. 


226  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 


2.  "The  deep  woods  have  many  moods  in  winter ;  more, 
perhaps,  than  in  summer,  or  even  in  spring.  But  they 
are  never  quite  so  beautiful  as  on  this  brilliant  morning 
after  the  first  heavy  snowfall.  Now  the  underbrush  is 
bowed  everywhere  in  slender  hoops  and  arches  of  white. 
Now  the  brooks  are  still  unfrozen  and  have  hollowed  the 
snow  on  their  banks  into  rounded  caps.  Now  the  tree 
trunks  down  the  forest  aisles  are  sharply  divided  like  a 
harlequin's  costume  into  black  and  white,  white  on  the 
windward  side,  black  on  the  leeward.  Now  the  forest 
overhead  is  one  continuous  roof  of  frosted  fairy  tracery, 
dazzling  where  the  sun  shoots  through,  soft  and  feathery 
in  shadow.  Down  a  glittering  forest  aisle  a  fern  stands 
up  in  the  shelter  of  a  rock,  a  vivid  green  above  the  white 
carpet.  About  us  in  silence,  as  we  walk,  come  down  little 
plops  of  snow  from  shaken  branches.  As  the  sun  mounts 
and  its  heat  is  felt,  the  tiny  avalanches  are  sounding  softly 
all  around  us  in  the  woods.  By  noon  the  fairy  groins 
and  arches  overhead,  all  this  tracery  as  of  elfin  gothic  gone 
delightfully  mad,  will  have  fallen.  The  trees  will  stand 
up  naked  above  a  snow  carpet  packing  down  for  the  first 
layer  of  winter.  But  for  one  glorious  morning  we  walk 
in  spangled  aisles  and  count  it  the  best  day  of  the  year." — 
Walter  Prichard  Eaton. 


SELF-CULTIVATION  IN  STYLE          227 


3.  The  following  is  an  interpretation  of  Mendelssohn's 
Spring  Song  by  describing  the  images  it  calls  up  to  the 
writer's  mind: 

"For  from  far  away  somewhere  came  the  softest,  sweet- 
est song.  A  woman  was  singing,  somewhere.  Nearer  and 
nearer  she  came,  over  the  hills,  in  the  lovely  early  morning, 
louder  and  louder  she  sang — and  it  was  the  Spring-song! 
Now  she  was  with  us — young,  clear-eyed,  happy,  bursting 
into  delicious  flights  of  laughter  between  the  bars.  Her 
eyes  I  know  were  gray.  She  did  not  run  nor  leap — she 
came  steadily  on,  with  a  swift,  strong,  swaying,  lilting 
movement.  She  was  all  odorous  of  the  morning,  all  vocal 
with  the  spring.  Her  voice  laughed  even  while  she  sang, 
and  the  perfect,  smooth  succession  of  the  separate  sounds 
was  unlike  any  effect  I  have  ever  heard.  Now  she  passed 
— she  was  gone  by.  Softer,  fainter — ah,  was  she  gone? 
No ;  she  turned  her  head,  tossed  us  flowers  and  sang  again, 
turned,  and  singing,  left  us.  One  moment  of  soft  echo — 
and  then  it  was  still." — Josephine  D.  Daskam:  Smith  Col- 
lege Monthly. 


228  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 


4.  "I  went  to  Washington  the  other  day  and  I  stood  on 
the  Capitol  hill,  and  my  heart  beat  quick  as  I  looked  at 
the  towering  marble  of  my  country's  Capitol,  and  a  mist 
gathered  in  my  eyes  as  I  thought  of  its  tremendous 
significance,  of  the  armies  and  the  treasury,  and  the  judges 
and  the  President,  and  the  Congress  and  the  courts,  and 
all  that  was  gathered  there ;  and  I  felt  that  the  sun  in  all 
its  course  could  not  look  down  on  a  better  sight  than  that 
majestic  home  of  a  Republic  that  had  taught  the  world  its 
best  lessons  of  liberty.  And  I  felt  that  if  honor  and 
wisdom  and  justice  dwelt  therein,  the  world  would  at 
last  owe  that  great  house,  in  which  the  ark  of  the  covenant 
of  my  country  is  lodged,  its  final  uplifting  and  its  re- 
generation. 

"But  a  few  days  afterwards  I  went  to  visit  a  friend  in 
the  country,  a  modest  man,  with  a  quiet  country  home. 
It  was  just  a  simple,  unpretentious  house,  set  about  with 
great  trees  and  encircled  in  meadow  and  field  rich  with 
the  promise  of  harvest ;  the  fragrance  of  the  pink  and  the 
hollyhock  in  the  front  yard  was  mingled  with  the  aroma  of 
the  orchard  and  the  garden,  and  the  resonant  clucking  of 
poultry  and  the  hum  of  bees.  Inside  was  quiet,  cleanli- 
ness, thrift  and  comfort. 

"Outside  there  stood  my  friend,  the  master,  a  simple, 
independent,  upright  man,  with  no  mortgage  on  his  roof, 
no  lien  on  his  growing  crops — master  of  his  land  and 
master  of  himself.  There  was  the  old  father,  an  aged  and 


SELF-CULTIVATION  IN  STYLE          229 


trembling  man,  but  happy  in  the  heart  and  home  of  his 
son.  And,  as  he  started  to  enter  his  home,  the  hand  of 
the  old  man  went  down  on  the  young  man's  shoulder, 
laying  there  the  unspeakable  blessing  of  an  honored  and 
honorable  father,  and  ennobling  it  with  the  knighthood  of 
the  fifth  commandment.  And  as  we  approached  the  door 
the  mother  came,  a  happy  smile  lighting  up  her  face,  while 
with  the  rich  music  of  her  heart  she  bade  her  husband  and 
her  son  welcome  to  their  home.  Beyond  was  the  house- 
wife, busy  with  her  domestic  affairs,  the  loving  helpmate 
of  her  husband.  Down  the  lane  came  the  children  after 
the  cows,  singing  sweetly,  as  like  birds  they  sought  the 
quiet  of  cheir  nest. 

"So  the  night  came  down  on  that  house,  falling  gently 
as  the  wing  of  an  unseen  dove.  And  the  old  man,  while 
a  startled  bird  called  from  the  forest  and  the  trees  trilled 
with  the  cricket's  cry,  and  the  stars  were  falling  from  the 
sky,  called  the  family  around  him  and  took  the  Bible  from 
the  table  and  called  them  to  their  knees.  The  little  baby 
hid  in  the  folds  of  its  mother's  dress  while  he  closed  the 
record  of  that  day  by  calling  down  God's  blessing  on  that 
simple  home.  While  I  gazed,  the  vision  of  the  marble 
Capitol  faded;  forgotten  were  its  treasures  and  its  maj- 
esty; and  I  said,  "Surely  here  in  the  house  of  the  people 
lodge  at  last  the  strength  and  the  responsibility  of  this 
government,  the  hope  and  the  promise  of  this  Republic." 
— H.  W.  Grady:  "The  New  South." 


230  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 


5.  "One  Sunday  morning,  a  few  months  ago,  I  passed 
along  the  sumptuous  corridors  of  the  Waldorf-Astoria 
Hotel,  New  York,  on  my  way  to  the  writing-room,  and 
I  came  to  a  spacious  scarlet  hall,  set  about  with  plush 
couches  and  little  writing;  desks.  Exquisite  and  imperious 
women  sat  in  cozy  flirtation  with  respectful  young  Amer- 
icans, and  there  was  a  happy  buzz  of  vanity,  in  the  air. 
Wealth,  luxury,  idleness,  were  all  about  me,  purring  and 
sunning  themselves  in  the  electric  light ;  and  yet,  for  some 
unknown  and  doubtless  trivial  reason,  I  was  sad.  As  I 
look  back  I  can  only  account  for  my  sadness  by  the  fact 
that  I  was  to  sit  answering  week-old  letters,  while  these 
happy  people  flirted.  A  little  reason  is  always  the  best 
to  give  for  a  great  sadness — though,  indeed,  how  could  one 
help  being  sad  in  the  presence  of  so  much  marble  and  so 
many  millionaires? 

"Well,  at  all  events  I  was  sad ;  but  suddenly,  as  I  looked 
about  for  an  unoccupied  desk,  what  was  this  voice  of 
ancient  comfort  speaking  to  me  from  a  little  group,  one 
reader  and  two  listeners, — a  gray-haired,  rather  stern,  old 
man,  a  gray-haired  old  lady,  a  boy,  not  specially  intent, — 
rich  people,  you  would  say,  to  look  at  them :  'Many  waters 
cannot  quench  love,  neither  can  the  floods  drown  it ;  if  a 
man  would  give  all  the  substance  of  his  house  for  love, 
it  would  utterly  be  contemned.' 

"It  was  a.  New  England  father  persisting  in  a  private 
morning  service  here  among  the  triflers. 

"I  felt  like  those  of  whom  one  has  read  in  Sunday- 
school  stories,  who,  passing  the  door  of  some  little  mission- 
house  one  rainy  night,  heard  a  word  or  a  hymn  that 
seemed  miraculously  intended  for  them.  Surely  that 
stern  old  Puritan  father  had  been  led  to  read  that  par- 
ticular chapter,  that  particular  Sunday  morning,  more  for 


SELF-CULTIVATION  IN  STYLE          231 


my  sake  than,  at  all  events,  for  the  sake  of  his  little  boy, 
who  might  quite  reasonably  and  respectfully  have  com- 
plained that  he  was  too  young  as  yet  to  comprehend 
writing  so  profoundly  beautiful  and  suggestive  as  the 
Hebrew  scriptures. 

"Yes!  it  was  evidently  for  the  poor  idealist  in  the 
House  of  Astor  that  the  message  was  intended.  For  the 
boy  weariness,  for  the  mother  platitude,  for  the  father  a 
text — for  me  a  bird  singing ;  and  all  day  long  I  kept 
saying  to  myself,  lonely  there  among  the  millionaires: 
'Many  waters  shall  not  quench  love,  neither  shall  the  floods 
drown  it;  if  a  man  would  give  all  the  substance  of  his 
house  for  love,  it  would  utterly  be  contemned.' 

"If  a  wild  rose  had  suddenly  showered  its  petals  down 
from  the  ceiling,  or  a  spring  bubbled  up  through  the  floor, 
or  a  dove  passed  in  flight  through  the  hall,  the  effect  of 
contrast  could  hardly  have  been  more  unexpected  than 
the  surprising  sound  of  those  old  words  thus  spoken  at 
that  moment,  in  that  place.  They  had  for  the  ear  the 
same  shock  of  incongruity,  of  willful  transportation  out 
of  one  world  into  another  quite  alien,  which  Cleopatra's 
Needle  has  for  the  eye  amid  the  hansoms  and  railway 
bridges  of  the  Thames'  embankment,  or  the  still  greater 
shock  of  juxtaposition  with  which  one  looks  upon  the 
Egyptian  obelisk  in  Central  Park. 

"But  there  was  this  difference.  The  obelisks  tell  of 
a  dead  greatness,  of  a  power  passed  away,  whereas  those 
words  told  of  an  ever-living  truth,  and  bore  witness,  even 
by  their  very  quotation  in  such  a  context,  to  a  power  no 
materialism  can  crush,  no  pessimism  stifle,  the  deathless 
idealism  of  the  human  spirit." — Richard  Le  Gallienne: 
"The  Second  Coming  of  the  Ideal." 


232  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 


6.  "Night  is  a  dead,  monotonous  period  under  a  roof; 
but  in  the  open  world  it  passes  lightly,  with  its  stars  and 
dews  and  perfumes,  and  the  hours  are  marked  by  changes 
in  the  face  of  Nature.  What  seems  a  kind  of  temporal 
death  to  people  choked  between  walls  and  curtains,  is  only 
a  light  and  living  slumber  to  the  man  who  sleeps  afield. 
All  night  long  he  can  hear  Nature  breathing  deeply  and 
freely ;  even  as  she  takes  her  rest  she  turns  and  smiles ; 
and  there  is  one  stirring  hour  unknown  to  those  who  dwell 
in  houses,  when  a  wakeful  influence  goes  abroad  over  the 
sleeping  hemisphere,  and  all  the  outdoor  world  are  on 
their  feet.  It  is  then  that  the  cock  first  crows,  not  this 
time  to  announce  the  dawn,  but  like  a  cheerful  watchman 
speeding  the  course  of  night.  Cattle  awake  on  the 
meadows;  sheep  break  their  fast  on  dewy  hillsides,  and 
change  to  a  new  lair  among  the  ferns ;  and  houseless  men, 
who  have  lain  down  with  the  fowls,  open  their  dim  eyes 
and  behold  the  beauty  of  the  night." — Stevenson:  "A 
Night  Among  the  Pines." 


SELF-CULTIVATION  IN  STYLE          233 

Further  examples  for  reproduction-will  be  found  in  this 
book  : 

7.  Passage  from  Stevenson  on  page  96. 

8.  Passage  from  Maupassant  on  page  47. 

9.  Description  of  Nevis  by  Hearn  on  page  u. 

10.  Description  of  "Eating  a  Peach"  by  Richardson 
on  page  16. 

I  know  of  no  better  method  of  mastering  the  art  of  the 
short  story  and  at  the  same  time  developing  a  style  of  your 
own  than  to  devote  a  month  to  the  following  exercises : 

Copy  "The  Necklace,"  word  for  word,  punctuation 
marks  and  all.  Do  this  twice.  Then  set  the  story  aside 
for  several  days  and  try  writing  the  entire  story  from 
memory.  Finally,  select  a  similar  theme,  place  it  in  a 
modern  setting,  and  write  an  original  story  of  your  own. 


III.    THE   THIRTY-SIX   ORIGINAL   PLOT 
SITUATIONS 

"Gozzi  maintained  that  there  can  be  but  thirty-six  tragic 
situations.  Schiller  took  great  pains  to  find  more,  but  he  was 
unable  to  find  even  so  many  as  Gozzi." — Goethe. 

No  apology  is  needed  for  introducing  these  thirty-six 
plot  situations  in  a  book  of  this  kind.  An  explanation 
might  be  in  order,  however,  in  regard  to  the  way  they 
should  be  used.  The  student  should  turn  to  this  list 
whenever  he  desires  to  sharpen  his  eye  for  new  plot 
combinations,  or  feels  the  need  of  having  his  creative 
imagination  stimulated.  The  student  will  be  disappointed 
who  comes  to  them  expecting  to  find  plots  all  ready  for 
his  hand.  He  will  find  here  inspiration  rather  than 
information. 

The  order  and  arrangement  are  my  own.  I  have  divided 
the  plots  into  two  grand  divisions,  one  comprising  those 
situations  that  seem  to  take  their  rise  from  the  solution 
and  the  other  comprising  those  that  are  the  outgrowth 
of  the  problem.  It  seemed  to  me  that  this  arrangement 
should  render  the  situations  more  immediately  suggestive 
to  the  student  who  comes  to  them  with  the  purpose  of 
having  his  power  of  invention  stimulated. 

CLASSIFICATION   OF  THE  THIRTY-SIX   PLOT  SITUATIONS 

A.     The  sixteen  original  plot  situations  that  are  stated  in 
the  form  of  the  problem. 

234 


THIRTY-SIX  ORIGINAL  PLOT  SITUATIONS  235 

1.  SUPPLICATION  : 

A  situation  in  our  day  practically  ignored. 
Illustrative  examples:    The  Suppliants,  ^Eschylus 

and  also  Euripides,  Book  of  Esther  (Bible). 
Modern    short    stories:     Making     Port — Richard 

Mathews  Hallet.     O'Brien,  Best  Short  Stories, 

1916. 

2.  VENGEANCE  PURSUING  CRIME: 

A  theme  very  popular  with  Arabs,  Spaniards,  and 

Israelites  of  the  Old  Testament. 
Illustrative     examples:     End     of     both     Homeric 

Poems,  Othello,  Hamlet. 
Modern  short  stories :    The  Red-Headed  League, 

A.  Conan  Doyle;    The  Blood  Red  One,  M.  S. 

Burt;  O'Brien,  Best  Short  Stories,  1918. 

3.  THE  PURSUED: 

The  converse  of  plot  two.  Shifts  viewpoint  and 
sympathies  from  pursuer  to  pursued. 

Illustrative  examples :  Brigands,  Schiller ;  Raffles, 
Hornung ;  An  Enemy  of  the  People,  Ibsen. 

Modern  short  stories :  A  Jury  of  Her  Peers,  Susan 
Glaspel ;  O'Brien  Collection,  1917;  The  Riding  of 
Black  Bill,  O.  Henry ;  A  Retrieved  Reformation, 
O.  Henry. 

4.  REVOLT  : 

A  splendid,  virile  theme.  May  be  used  as  core  of 
solution  as  well  as  of  problem. 

Illustrative  examples :  Chanticleer,  Rostand ;  Wil- 
liam Tell,  Schiller;  Doll's  House,  Ibsen;  A  Life 
for  a  Life,  Herrick. 

Modern  short  stories :  The  Revolt  of  Mother,  Mary 
Wilkins  Freeman;  Buster,  Katherine  Holland 
Brown;  O'Brien,  1918;  Dishes,  A.  M.  Brownell, 
O'Brien,  1919;  The  Fat  of  the  Land,  Anzia 
Yezierska,  O'Brien,  1919. 


236  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

5.  AUDACIOUS  ATTEMPT: 

"Summarizes  the  poetry  of  war,  of  robbery,  of  sur- 
prise, of  desperate  chance — the  poetry  of  clear- 
eyed  adventurers,  of  man  beyond  the  restraints 
of  the  artificial  civilization,  of  Man  in  the  orig- 
inal acceptation  of  the  term." — Polti. 

Illustrative  examples:  Toilers  of  the  Sea,  Hugo; 
Henry  V,  Shakespeare;  The  Conquest  of  Mex- 
ico, Prescott ;  The  Message  to  Garcia,  Elbert 
Hubbard. 

Modern  short  stories:  The  Taking  of  Tungstun- 
pen,  Rudyard  Kipling;  The  Taking  of  the  Re- 
doubt, Prosper  Merimee. 

6.  THE  ENIGMA  : 

Usually  upon  the  solution  of  the  enigma  hangs  a 
reward,  either  of  love  or  money,  and  upon  its 
failure  some  penalty,  sometimes  even  the  penalty 
of  death. 

Illustrative  examples:  The  Sphinx,  Sophocles; 
Queen  of  Sheba  and  Solomon;  Portia's  coffers 
in  Merchant  of  Venice. 

Modern  short  stories:  The  Dilemma,  S.  Weir 
Mitchell;  The  Gold  Bug,  Edgar  Allan  Poe; 
The  Lady  or  the  Tiijer,  Erank  Stockton;  What 
Was  It?  A  Mystery,  Fitz  James  O'Brien;  The 
Damned  Thing,  Ambrose  Bierce. 

7.  FATAL  IMPRUDENCE: 

This  will  always  remain  one  of  the  most  fascinating 
of  themes,  for  as  in  the  case  of  the  Enigma  the 
reader  or  spectator  easily  becomes  as  curious  as 
the  imprudent  character  in  the  story.  The 
motives  may  be  curiosity,  credulity  or  jealousy. 

Illustrative  examples :  Pandora  and  her  box ;  Eve 
and  the  apple ;  Bluebeard's  wife  and  the  closed 
room;  Wild  Duck,  Ibsen. 


THIRTY-SIX  ORIGINAL  PLOT  SITUATIONS  237 

Modern  short  stories:    De  Vilmarte's  Luck,  Mary 
Heaton  Vorse,   O'Brien   Collection,   1918;    The 
Necklace,  Guy  de  Maupassant ;  Maulbaum's  Fever 
Ward,  George  Gilbert,  O'Brien,  1918;  The  Wed- 
ding Jest,  James  Branch  Cabell,  O'Brien,  1919. 

8.  ENMITY  OF  KINSMEN  OR  FRIENDS: 

Not  an  attractive  theme,  as  it  is  based  upon  es- 
trangement and  hate.  The  chief  difficulty  will 
be  to  find  an  element  of  discord  powerful  enough 
to  cause  the  breaking  of  the  strongest  human  ties. 

Illustrative  examples :  Cain,  Byron ;  Seven  against 
Thebes,  yEschylus ;  Four  Horsemen  of  the  Apoc- 
alypse, Ibanez. 

Modern  short  stories :  Mrs.  Drainger's  Veil,  H.  M. 
Jones — O'Brien,  1919;  The  Fat  of  the  Land, 
Anzia  Yezierska — O'Brien,  1918. 

9.  RIVALRY  OF  KINSMEN  OR  FRIENDS: 

War,  love,  business  and  adventure  offer  attractive 
opportunities  for  this  theme. 

Illustrative  examples:  Pelleas  and  Melisande, 
Maeterlinck;  Adam  Bede,  George  Eliot;  Two 
Gentlemen  of  Verona,  Shakespeare;  Two  Noble 
Kinsmen,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

Modern  short  stories:  The  Confession,  Guy  de 
Maupassant;  A  Light  Man,  Henry  James;  A 
Cup  of  Tea,  Maxwell  Struthers  Burt,  O'Brien, 
1917;  The  Love  of  Men,  Nevil  A.  Henshaw, 
Neal,  Today's  Short  Stories  Analyzed. 

10.     UNEQUAL  RIVALRY: 

This  is  and  will  always  remain  one  of  the  most 
popular  plot  situations  in  all  literature.  The  poor 
boy  loves  the  little  rich  girl,  and  Cinderella  loves 
the  prince.  Its  combinations  are  unlimited. 

Illustrative  examples :    Toilers  of  the  Sea,  Hugo ; 


238  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

Cyrano   de  Bergerac,   Rostand;    Launcelot  and 
Elaine,  Tennyson. 

Modern  short  stories :  The  Boy  in  the  Corner, 
M.  L.  C. ;  Rainbow  Pete,  Richard  Mathews  Hal- 
let,  O'Brien,  1917. 

11.  OBSTACLES  TO  LOVE: 

So  common  a  theme  as  to  be  the  very  quintessence 
of  the  trite,  and  yet  so  broad  and  deep  in  its 
appeal,  and  so  varied  in  its  possibilities,  that  it 
still  remains  the  greatest  of  all  plots  of  romance. 

Illustrative  examples:  All  fairy  tales  with  love 
element,  and  half  the  love  stories  of  today. 

Modern  short  stories :  In  Maulbaum's  Fever  Ward, 
George  Gilbert,  O'Brien  Collection,  1918;  M'liss, 
Bret  Harte ;  On  the  Fever  Ship,  Richard  Hard- 
ing Davis;  Blue  Roses,  Lisa  Ysaye  Tarleau;  A 
Rag-time  Lady,  Rhodes  and  Yates. 

12.  AN  ENEMY  LOVED: 

This  is  a  variation  on  situation  n.  Splendid  op- 
portunities for  such  a  theme  are  presented  by 
the  present  war. 

Illustrative  examples :  Romeo  and  Juliet,  Shake- 
speare; Duchess  of  Malfi,  Webster;  Monna 
Vanna,  Maeterlinck. 

Modern  short  stories:  Messengers,  Calvin  John- 
son, O'Brien,  1919. 

13.  AMBITION  : 

Ambition,  when  once  awakened  in  a  man,  is  the 
most  powerful  of  passions  and  will  continue  to 
dominate  him  till  he  dies.  Strange  to  say,  the 
ancients  never  made  use  of  this  theme. 

Illustrative  examples:  Cromwell,  Hugo;  W alien- 
stein,  Schiller ;  Richard  III,  Shakespeare ;  Julius 
Ccesar,  Shakespeare;  Macbeth,  Shakespeare. 


THIRTY-SIX  ORIGINAL  PLOT  SITUATIONS  239 

Modern  short  stories:  A  Cup  of  Tea,  Maxwell 
Struthers  Burt;  Three  Arshins  of  Land,  Lyof 
Tolstoy;  On  the  Stairs,  Arthur  Morrison;  The 
Path  of  Glory,  Mary  Brecht  Pulver;  The  Ambi- 
tious Guest,  Hawthorne. 
•  14.  STRUGGLE  AGAINST  DESTINY  OR  GOD: 

This  theme,  in  contrast  to  the  one  preceding,  was 
the  most  popular  one  among  the  ancients,  whereas 
today  it  is  rarely  touched. 

Illustrative  examples:  The  Book  of  Job;  Prome- 
theus, yEschylus;  Bacchantes,  Euripides;  Para- 
dise Lost,  Milton;  Master  Builder,  Ibsen. 

Modern  short  stories :  Kitchen  Gods,  G.  F.  Aslop, 
O'Brien,  1919;  Caught,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Haldermon 
Julius ;  In  Maulbaum's  Fever  Ward,  George  Gil- 
bert, O'Brien,  1918. 

15.  MISTAKEN  IDENTITY: 

Offers  especially  good  opportunity  for  depiction  of 
the  emotion  of  jealousy,  also  unlimited  oppor- 
tunities for  farce. 

Illustrative  examples :  Comedy  of  Errors,  Shake- 
speare; Cymbeline,  Shakespeare;  Prisoner  of 
Zenda,  Anthony  Hope. 

Modern  short  stories:  My  Double  and  How  He 
Undid  Me,  Edward  Everett  Hale;  Girl,  O. 
Henry;  His  Wedded  Wife,  Rudyard  Kipling. 

16.  IN  THE  CLUTCHES  OF  CRUELTY  OR  MISFORTUNE: 

A  big  theme  giving  only  of  its  riches  to  the  master 
hand.  A  favorite  of  epic  and  Biblical  literature. 
Illustrative  examples :  The  Princess  Madeline, 
Maeterlinck;  Jews  in  Captivity,  Negro  in  Amer- 
ica; Prometheus  Bound;  Book  of  Job. 

Modern  short  stories :  Lonely  Places,  Francis  Buz- 
zell,  O'Brien,  1917;  The  Last  Class,  Alphonse 
Daudet. 


240  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

B.     Plot  Situations  Stated  in  the  Form  of  the  Solution. 

17.  THE  SAVIOR: 

The  "Unfortunate"  may  be  a  community  starving 
for  inspiration  and  enlightenment,  such  as  a 
frontier  village  lost  in  drink  and  debauchery; 
or  it  may  be  an  old  community  befogged  with 
dogmatism  or  pessimism  or  mutual  criticism,  or 
it  may  be  an  individual  who  is  in  dire  distress. 
The  Rescuer  may  be  a  sweet,  inexperienced 
young  woman  leaving  her  college  upon  gradua- 
tion for  wider  fields  of  service,  a  young  minister, 
a  crippled  soldier,  a  little  child.  This  theme, 
when  divorced  from  medieval  heroics  and  mod- 
ern melodrama,  is  exactly  the  theme  which  this 
age  most  profoundly  needs. 

Illustrative  examples :  Chivalrous  legends  where 
the  lady  is  saved  by  the  knight ;  Bluebeard,  etc. ; 
Sky  Pilot,  Connor;  Little  Shepherd  of  Kingdom 
Come,  Fox. 

Modern  short  stories :  The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp, 
Bret  Harte ;  The  Idyll  of  Red  Gulch,  Bret  Harte ; 
His  Majesty  the  King,  Rudyard  Kipling ;  Feet  of 
Gold,  Arthur  Gordon  Smith,  O'Brien,  1916; 
The  White  Battalion,  Frances  Gilchrist  Wood, 
O'Brien,  1916;  Ching,  Ching,  Chinaman,  Wilbur 
Daniel  Steele,  O'Brien,  1917;  Extra  Men,  Harri- 
son Rhodes,  O'Brien,  1918;  Boys  Will  Be  Boys, 
Irvin  S.  Cobb,  O'Brien,  1917;  The  Willow  Pond, 
Helen  Ellwanger  Hanford. 

18.  VENGEANCE  TAKEN  UPON  KINDRED  BY  KINDRED: 

This  is  chiefly  a  theme  of  the  ancient  Greeks. 
When  the  avenger's  action  is  prompted  by  the 
wish  of  the  dying  victim,  or  the  spirit  of  the 
dead  mysteriously  appearing,  professional  duty 


THIRTY-SIX  ORIGINAL  PLOT  SITUATIONS  241 

or  an  imprudent  promise,  the  dramatic  possibil- 
ities are  enhanced. 

Illustrative  examples  :  Hamlet,  Shakespeare  ;  Elec- 
tra,  Sophocles  and  Euripides;  Libation  Pourers, 


Modern  short  stories  s  The  Caller  in  the  Night, 
Burton  Kline,  O'Brien,  1917. 

19.  OBTAINING  : 

This  is  a  popular  theme  today  whether  it  is  located 

in  the  field  of  commerce  or  of  love. 
Illustrative      examples  :      Philoctetes,      Sophocles  ; 

Helen  Reclaimed,  Euripides. 
Modern  short  stories  :    A  Sisterly  Scheme,  H.  C. 

Bunner;    Get-Rich-Quick    Wallingford,   George 

Randolph  Chester. 

20.  MADNESS  : 

Modern  writers  cannot  find  the  literary  possibilities 
in  insanity  that  the  earlier  writers  found  in  it, 
for  the  simple  reason  that  modern  science  pro- 
nounces it  to  be  merely  hereditary  and  patho- 
logical where  Greek  writers  considered  it  divine, 
and  medieval  writers  considered  it  demoniacal  — 
two  conceptions  which  gave  it  its  literary  posi- 
tion. Shakespeare  had  an  inordinate  love  for  it. 
The  greatest  short-story  writer  of  today,  Wilbur 
Daniel  Steele,  has  shown  wonderful  power  in 
depicting  it. 

Illustrative  examples:  Hedda  Gabler,  Ibsen;  Her- 
cules Fur  ens,  Euripides  ;  Ajax,  Sophocles  ;  Saul, 
Gide;  Macbeth,  Shakespeare. 

Modern  short  stories  :  The  Open  Window,  Charles 
Caldwell  Dobie,  O'Brien,  1918;  Laughter,  Charles 
Caldwell  Dobie,  O'Brien,  1917;  The  Cask  of 
Amontillado,  Edgar  Allan  Poe;  The  T  ell-Tale 
Heart,  Edgar  Allan  Poe;  The  Women  at  Seven 


242  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

Brothers,  W.  D.  Steele;  For  They  Know  Not 
What  They  Do,  W.  D.  Steele;  The  Wrists  on 
the  Door,  Horace  Fish,  O'Brien,  1919. 

21.  SLAYING   A   KINSMAN   UNRECOGNIZED: 

This  is  a  rarely  used  situation.  Hugo  had  an 
inordinate  liking  for  it  and  bases  most  of  his 
dramas  upon  it.  Shakespeare,  on  the  other  hand, 
has  not  in  a  single  instance  employed  it. 

Illustrative  examples :  Sohrab  and  Rustum,  Arnold. 

Modern  short  stories :  The  Father's  Hand,  George 
Humphrey,  O'Brien,  1918;  Tropics,  Patrick 
Casey,  Neal's  Today's  Short  Stories  Analyzed. 

22.  SELF-SACRIFICE  FOR  AN  IDEAL: 

Like  the  Savior,  this  situation  is  just  what  we  need 
today.  It  easily  becomes  trite  and  "preachy"  if 
not  handled  in  a  new  way.  There  is  no  neces- 
sity, however,  of  choosing  a  hero  of  a  too-perfect 
type. 

Illustrative  examples:  Jean  Valjean,  Joan  of  Arc, 
Sir  Launfal,  Sir  Galahad;  The  Doctor,  Connor; 
Luther,  Werner;  Resurrection,  Tolstoy. 

Modern  short  stories :  A  Certain  Rich  Man,  Law- 
rence Perry,  O'Brien,  1917;  The  Emperor  of 
Elam,  H.  G.  Dwight,  O'Brien,  1917;  The  Knight's 
Move,  Katherine  Fullerton  Gerould,  O'Brien, 
1917;  Messengers,  Calvin  Johnson,  O'Brien, 
1919. 

23.  SELF-SACRIFICE  FOR  KINDRED  OR  FRIENDS: 

This  also  may  easily  become  trite  and  didactic  un- 
less handled  in  a  big  way.  It  is  one  of  the  three 
most  popuiar  plot  situations  used  today. 

Illustrative  examples :  Cyrano  de  Bergerac,  Ros- 
tand ;  Great  Expectations,  Dickens ;  Tale  of  Two 


THIRTY-SIX  ORIGINAL  PLOT  SITUATIONS  243 

Cities,    Dickens;     The    Joy    of    Living,    Zola; 
Alcestis,  Euripides. 

Modern  short  stories:  Onnie,  Thomas  Beer, 
O'Brien,  1917;  The  Gay  Old  Dog,  Edna  Ferber, 
O'Brien,  1917;  The  Bunker  Mouse,  Frederick 
Stuart  Greene,  O'Brien,  1917;  A  Derelict,  Rich- 
ard Harding  Davis;  The  Substitute,  Franqois 
Coppee;  Tennessee's  Partner,  Bret  Harte;  None 
So  Blind,  Mary  Synon,  O'Brien,  1917;  For  They 
Know  Not  What  They  Do,  W.  D.  Steele. 

24.  DISCOVERY  OF  THE  DISHONOR  OF  A  LOVED  ONE: 

If  this  comes  as  the  solution  to  a  plot,  the  story 
must  end  in  remorse,  or  hate — at  all  events  in 
tragedy.  If  it  comes  at  the  beginning — and 
stands  in  the  place  of  the  problem — then  the 
discoverer  may  try  to  help  the  sinner  make 
amends  and  live  down  the  fault. 

Illustrative  examples :  Allison's  Lad  (one-act  play). 

Modern  short  stories :  Mateo  Falcone,  Prosper 
Merimee;  The  Child  Spy,  Alphonse  Daudet; 
For  They  Know  Not  What  They  Do,  W.  D. 
Steele. 

25.  ALL  SACRIFICED  FOR  A  PASSION: 

This  theme  gives  splendid  opportunity  for  studying 
nervous  pathology,  and  consequently  is  one  of 
the  most  constantly  treated  themes  of  the  French 
writers  of  today.  Not  to  be  attempted  until  one 
understands  how  to  express  emotion. 

Illustrative  examples :  Antony  and  Cleopatra, 
Shakespeare;  Cleopatra,  Sardou;  Sapho,  Dau- 
det; Salome,  Wilde;  Herodias,  Wilde. 

Modern  short  stories :  In  Maulbaum's  Fever  Ward, 
George  Gilbert,  O'Brien,  1918;  L'Arrabiata, 
Paul  Heyse. 


244  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

26.  ERRONEOUS  JUDGMENT: 

This  has  larger  possibilities  if  placed  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  story,  as  a  problem  to  be  worked  out. 
At  the  end  the  mistake  leads  only  to  tragedy. 

Illustrative  examples :  The  Brigands,  Schiller ; 
The  Serpent  Woman,  Gozzi. 

Modern  short  stories:  The  Piece  of  String,  Guy 
de  Maupassant. 

27.  REMORSE  : 

"It  is  hardly  necessary  to  call  attention  to  the  small 

number,  but  the  terrible  beauty  of  the  works  of 

literature  that  has  dealt  with  this  theme." — Polti. 
Illustrated  examples :  Orestes,  Euripides ;  Manfred, 

Byron ;  Madeline,  Zola ;    Werther,  Goethe ;  Ros- 

mersholm,  Ibsen;  Bernice,  Poe. 
Modern   short   stories :     Markheim,   Robert   Louis 

Stevenson;    Another    Gambler,    Paul    Bourget; 

Laughter,  Charles  Caldwell  Dobie,  O'Brien,  1917; 

The  Wrists  on  the  Door,  Horace  Fish,  O'Brien, 

1919. 

28.  THE  NECESSITY  OF  SACRIFICING  LOVED  ONES: 

This  situation  as  it  stands  will  rarely  be  found  in 

modern  literature.     The  beginner  will  have  few 

occasions  to  use  it. 
Illustrative  examples :    Abraham  and  Isaac ;  Jeph- 

tha's  daughter;    Iphigenia  in  Aulis,  Euripides; 

Monna  Vanna,  Maeterlinck. 
Modern  short  stories:    Kitchen  Gods,  G.  F.  Aslop, 

O'Brien,  1919. 

29.  ABDUCTION. 

This  is  a  favorite  theme  of  the  French.  In  Amer- 
ican literature  a  treasure  box  is  often  substi- 
tuted for  the  girl. 

Illustrative  examples:    The  Abduction  of  Helen, 


THIRTY-SIX  ORIGINAL  PLOT  SITUATIONS  245 

Euripides;  iphigenia  in  Tauris,  Euripides;  The 
Sabine  Women;  Cassandra. 

Modern  short  stories :  The  Ransom  of  Red  Chief, 
O.  Henry ;  In  Maulbaum's  Fever  Ward,  George 
Gilbert,  O'Brien,  1919. 

30.  DISASTER. 

This  theme,  the  ever-recurring  refrain  of  the  Bibli- 
cal books,  reverberating  in  immortal  echoes 
through  Homer  and  the  Greek  dramatists,  today 
awaits  a  writer  with  sufficient  sweep  and  scope  of 
imagination,  with  mind  of  sufficient  Homeric  pro- 
portions, to  re-incarnate  this  great  epic  in  a 
message  for  our  own  modern  era.  Europe  has 
furnished  the  material.  Let  him  who  can  essay 
the  task.  But  when  the  great  writer  of  this 
theme  arises  he  will  not  select  for  his  medium 
the  short  story.  Only  an  epic  will  do  it  justice. 

Illustrative  examples :  Last  Days  of  Pompeii, 
Bulwer  Lytton;  The  Persians,  ^schylus;  La 
Debacle,  Zola;  War  of  the  Worlds,  Wells; 
Antony  and  Cleopatra,  Shakespeare;  War  and 
Peace,  Tolstoy. 

Modern  short  stories :  Lodgings  for  a  Night,  Bret 
Harte;  The  Ambitious  Guest,  Hawthorne. 

31.  THE  RECOVERY  OF  A  LOST  ONE: 

One  of  the  perennially  popular  themes.  Like  all 
such,  it  is  a  little  threadbare,  but  deserving  of 
fresh  treatment  in  new  settings. 

Illustrative  examples :  Winter's  Tale,  Shakespeare ; 
Pericles,  Shakespeare ;  "The  Stolen  Child"  situa- 
tion; Prodigal  Son,  etc. 

Modern  short  stories:  The  Mystery  of  the  Red- 
Haired  Girl,  Louise  Kennedy  Mabie;  Messen- 
gers, Calvin  Johnson,  O'Brien,  1919. 


246  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

32.    THE  Loss  OF  LOVED  ONES: 

Where  this  situation  is  used  for  the  problem,  it 
presents  opportunities  for  all  types  of  plots; 
where  used  as  the  solution  it  confines  the  writer 
to  an  atmosphere  of  gloom  and  mourning  not  at 
all  popular  today. 

Illustrative  examples :  The  Intruders,  Maeterlinck ; 
Niobe,  ^Eschylus;  The  Seven  Princesses,  Mae- 
terlinck. 

Modern  short  stories:    In  the  Open  Code,  Burton 
Kline,  O'Brien,  1918;  Without  Benefit  of  Clergy, 
Rudyard  Kipling ;  The  Unknown,  A.  P.  Terhune, 
Neal,  Today's  Short  Stories  Analyzed. 
C.     Four  undesirable  plot  situations: 

33.  ADULTERY. 

34.  MURDEROUS  ADULTERY. 

35.  CRIMES  OF  LOVE. 

36.  INVOLUNTARY  CRIMES  OF  LOVE. 

HOW  TO  USE  THE  THIRTY-SIX  PLOT  SITUATIONS 

The  following  situations  you  can  throw  into  the  discard 
as  being  practically  useless  unless  occasionally  employed 
in  a  very  secondary  situation :  18  (Vengeance  taken  upon 
kindred),  21  (Slaying  a  kinsman  unrecognized),  8  (En- 
mity of  friends),  and  28  (Necessity  of  sacrificing  loved 
ones).  It  is  too  difficult,  almost  impossible,  to  secure  the 
necessary  motivation  for  such  situations;  furthermore 
they  are  offensive  to  the  average  reader. 

Next  you  can  put  down  as  exceedingly  trite  and  there- 
fore to  be  used  only  sparingly  and  in  connection  with 
exceedingly  vital,  novel  characters  or  unusual  complica- 
tions: 15  (Mistaken  identity)  and  29  (Abduction),  the 
two  most  frequently  used  movie  plot  situations  today, 


THIRTY-SIX  ORIGINAL  PLOT  SITUATIONS  247 

and  31  (Recovery  of  a  lost  one).  The  only  place  where 
it  will  be  safe  to  use  these  is  in  minor  episodes. 

The  situations  which  have  the  largest  dramatic  values 
are  22,  23,  24  and  25  (Self -Sacrifice  for  an  Ideal,  Self- 
Sacrifice  for  Friends,  Discovery  of  the  Dishonor  of  a 
Loved  One,  and  All  Sacrificed  for  a  Passion).  Because 
these  situations  are  so  rich  in  dramatic  possibilities  they 
have  been  used  a  great  deal ;  therefore  the  following  advice 
is  given  in  connection  with  them:  In  using  22  (Self- 
Sacrifice  for  an  Ideal)  and  23  (Self -Sacrifice  for  Friends) 
care  should  be  taken  to  see. that  the  sentimental  is  avoided 
and  that  the  situations  are  plausible,  vital  and  compelling. 
The  other  two,  24  (Discovery  of  the  Dishonor  of  a  Loved 
One)  and  25  (All  Sacrificed  for  a  Passion),  are  better 
when  used  as  secondary  situations.  Situation  24  goes 
well  with  28  (Necessity  of  Sacrifice  of  Loved  Ones), 
about  the  only  occasion  when  situation  28  may  be  safely 
used. 

The  situations  which  have  largest  possibilities  for  action 
are  2,  3,  4  and  5  (Vengeance  Pursuing  Crime,  The  Pur- 
sued, Revolt,  and  the  Audacious  Attempt).  In  handling 
these  special  care  should  be  taken  to  avoid  melodrama, 
especially  in  4  (Revolt),  which  is  very  effective  if  this 
danger  is  avoided.  Situation  3  (The  Pursued)  is  good 
in  combination  with  12  (An  Enemy  Loved)  and  26 
(Erroneous  Judgment).  Situation  5  (Audacious  At- 
tempt) makes  an  excellent  basic  action  when  combined 
with  4  (Revolt)  or  30  (Disaster). 

The  four  love  themes,  9,  10,  u  and  12  (Rivalry  of 
Friends,  Unequal  Rivalry,  Obstacles  to  Love,  and  An 
Enemy  Loved),  are  always  interesting  if  the  characters 
are  real,  and  the  action-  is  well  motivated,  and  vital,  but 
9  (Rivalry  of  Friends)  and  12  (An  Enemy  Loved) 


248  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

should  be  used  for  secondary  situations  rather  than  main 
situations. 

The  situations  that  have  been  used  the  least  of  all  and 
therefore  are  deserving  of  careful  study  by  students  who 
wish  to  find  new  plot  situations  are  the  following: 

I.  Supplication.  Has  been  used  so  sparingly  in  the  past 
that  it  is  practically  an  unworked  field.  Possibil- 
ities, however,  are  limited. 

6.  The  Enigma.     Has  rarely  been  used  outside  of  detec- 

tive stories.     Has  excellent  possibilities. 

7.  Fatal  Imprudence.     Has  excellent  possibilities  if  the 

character  is  novel  and  unusual. 

13.  Ambition.     Has    excellent    possibilities    where    the 

character  is  well  drawn. 

14.  Struggle  Against  Destiny.     Gives  remarkable  oppor- 

tunity for  atmosphere  story,  or  story  of  introspec- 
tion and  emotion. 

17.  The  Savior.  This  has  been  used  often  but  has  been 
overused  in  only  two  types  of  plots :  where  the 
rescuer  saves  some  one  who  has  been  abducted 
(the  favorite  movie  topic),  or  where  he  is  fault- 
lessly good.  Where  the  character  is  well  drawn, 
human  and  interesting,  and  where  sentimentality 
and  melodrama  are  avoided,  this  situation  has  infi- 
nite possibilities. 

20.  Madness.  Presents  its  best  opportunities  when  used 
in  connection  with  situation  7  (Fatal  Imprudence) 
or  25  (All  Sacrificed  for  a  Passion). 

27.  Remorse.  Requires  skillful  treatment  and  knowledge 
of  human  nature.  Best  fitted  for  stories  of  intro- 
spection and  emotion. 

30.  Disaster.  Not  effective  unless  the  disaster  is  well 
motivated.  Would  make  good  basis  for  atmos- 
phere story. 


THIRTY-SIX  ORIGINAL  PLOT  SITUATIONS  249 

The  majority  of  beginners'  stories  fail,  from  the  plot 
point  of  view,  for  one  of  the  following  reasons: 

1.  They  begin  well,  but  the  solution  falls  flat. 

2.  They  have  an  excellent  climax,  but  are  improperly 

motivated  at  the  beginning. 

3.  They  have  a  well-drawn  character,  but  the  situation 

he  is  placed  in  doesn't  give  him  a  chance  to  reveal 
himself. 

4.  The  plot  is  excellently  developed,  but  it  is  hopelessly 

trite. 

Every  one  of  these  mistakes  could  have  been  avoided  by 
a  careful  study  of  the  thirty-six  original  plot  situations. 
Perhaps  the  most  valuable  use  you  can  make  of  these 
situations  is  as  follows :  First  select  a  starting  point  for 
a  story  based  upon  your  own  experience.  This  may  be 
merely  a  character  you  have  known,  a  setting  you  are 
familiar  with,  a  theme  you  wish  to  present  in  artistic 
form,  or  a  complication  or  solution  that  tempts  you  but 
which  you  don't  quite  know  how  to  develop.  Then  turn 
to  the  thirty-six  plot  situations  and  study  them  carefully. 
For  purposes  of  reference,  guidance  and  inspiration  you 
will  find  they  are  invaluable. 


EXERCISES    IN  THE   THIRTY-SIX    PLOT 
SITUATIONS 

I.  Read  four  of  the  following  short  stories  and  bring  to 
class  a  list  of  the  plot  situations  used  in  them.  See  sec- 
tion 2  in  each  of  the  analyses  of  the  four  short  stories 
printed  in  this  book  for  models.  This  exercise  is  one  of 
the  very  best  ways  to  train  the  sense  of  plot-building  in 
students : 


250  THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

The  Last  Class  (Daudet)        England  to  America  (Mar- 
garet Prescott  Montague 
The  Necklace  (De  Maupas-     Making      Port       (Richard 

sant)  Mathews  Hallett) 

Sire   De    Maletroit's   Door     For  They  Know  Not  What 

(Stevenson)  They  Do  (W.  D.  Steele) 

The  Municipal  Report  (O.     Footfalls  (W.  D.  Steele) 

Henry 
The  Man  Who  Would  Be     Twenty-three   and   a   Half 

King  (Kipling)  Hours'      Leave      (Mary 

Roberts   Rhinehart 

II.  Take  a  character  that  you  would  like  to  use  in  a  story 
and  put  him  in  each  of  the  four  love  plots  (Situations  9, 
10,  ii  and  12)  and  write  a  paragraph  abstract  on  each 
one,  outlining  in  a  very  general  manner  how  the  plot 
would  evolve. 

III.  In  similar  manner  put  him  in  each  of  the  four 
action  plots  (2,  3,  4  and  5). 

IV.  In  similar  manner  put  him  in  each  of  the  four  self- 
sacrificing  situations  (22,  23,  24  and  25). 

V.  In  similar  manner  put  him  in  each  of  the  nine  situa- 
tions described  on  page  248  as  being  the  least  trite  (i,  6, 
7,  13,  14,  17,  20,  27  and  30). 

VI.  Notice  that  the  situations  are  summarized  below  in 
two  columns,  the  column  to  the  left  consisting  of  situa- 
tions stated  in  form  of  a  problem  and  the  column  to  the 
right  consisting  of  situations  stated  in  form  of  a  solution. 
From  the  first  column  select  one  situation    (preferably 
Ambition)  as  the  problem  and  find  ten  solutions  for  it 
in  situations  taken  from  the  opposite  column.     Summarize 
each  of  the  plots  thus  formed  definitely  but  briefly. 


THIRTY-SIX  ORIGINAL  PLOT  SITUATIONS  251 

VII.  Select  one  situation  from  the  solution  side  (pref- 
erably The  Savior)  and  then  find  ten  problems  in  the 
other  column  to  serve  as  starting  points  or  complications 
for  which  this  situation  could  be  the  solution.  Summarize 
the  plots  thus  formed  briefly,  but  as  concretely  and  defi- 
nitely as  possible. 


Sixteen  Original  Plot  Solu- 
tions stated  in  form  of 
PROBLEM 

1.  Supplication. 

2.  Vengeance    pursuing 

crime. 

3.  The  pursued. 

4.  Revolt. 

5.  Audacious  attempt. 

6.  The  enigma. 

7.  Fatal  imprudence. 

8.  Enmity  of  friends. 

9.  Rivalry  of  friends. 

10.  Unequal  rivalry. 

11.  Obstacles  to  love. 

12.  An  enemy  loved. 

13.  Ambition. 

14.  Struggle    against    des- 

tiny. 

15.  Mistaken  identity. 

1 6.  In  the  clutches  of  mis- 

fortune. 


Sixteen  Original  Plot  Solu- 
tions stated  in  form  of 
SOLUTION 

17.  The  savior. 

1 8.  Vengeance  taken  upon 

kindred. 

19.  Obtaining. 

20.  Madness. 

21.  Slaying  a  kinsman  un- 

recognized. 

22.  Self-sacrifice     for     an 

ideal. 

23.  Self-sacrifice      fof 

friends. 

24.  Discovery  of  dishonor 

of  a  loved  one. 

25.  All  sacrificed  for  a  pas- 

sion. 

26.  Erroneous  judgment. 

27.  Remorse. 

28.  The  necessity  of  sacri- 

ficing loved  ones. 

29.  Abduction. 

30.  Disaster.  * 

31.  Recovery  of  lost  ones. 

32.  Loss  of  loved  ones. 


252      THE  SHORT  STORY  ART 

VIII.     A  Plot-Building  Game. 

Divide  the  thirty-two  original  plot  situations  given  above 
into  four  groups.  Then  divide  the  class  into  four  sections 
and  to  each  section  give  a  group  of  plot  situations.  Then 
select  some  particular  phase  of  life  that  all  are  familiar 
with,  preferably  college  life,  and  require  that  every  student 
bring  to  class  on  the  following  day  a  definitely  worked 
out  plot  for  each  of  the  eight  situations  given  to  him. 

When  the  class  meets  have  these  plots  passed  around 
among  the  students  until  each  paper  has  been  read  and 
graded  by  five  students.  Then,  beginning  with  situation  I 
(Supplication),  read  the  three  or  four  best  developments 
of  this  theme  as  applied  to  college  life.  Have  the  class 
discuss  these  briefly  and  take  a  vote  upon  the  best.  In  a 
similar  fashion  take  up  each  plot  situation  in  turn.  This 
may  require  two  or  three  full  recitation  hours.  At  the 
end  of  these  discussions  the  plot  situations  which  were 
chosen  by  vote  as  best  should  be  neatly  typewritten  with 
sufficient  carbon  copies  so  that  the  instructor  shall  have  a 
copy  and  several  may  be  placed  in  library  so  that  students 
may  have  access  to  them.  The  class  will  find  this  a  revela- 
tion of  what  excellent  work  can  be  done  in  plot-building. 
Two  or  three  years'  accumulation  of  such  lists  would 
prove  to  be  a  veritable  gold  mine  of  material  for  an  in- 
structor in  short  story  writing  or  for  an  instructor  of 
a  Freshman  English  class  which  is  studying  narrative 
writing. 


29Nov54PB 


l6Dec'57MH§ 


REC'D  UD 


8Apr59AB 


?  1959 
23Martj3W-8-    -, 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


